University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

The  Theodore  H.  Koundakjian 

Collection 
of  American  Humor 


WRITINGS 


OP 


DR.  GEORGE  W.  BAGBYJ 


SELECTIONS 


FKOM 


THE  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


OF 


DR.  GEORGE  ¥.  BAGBY. 


VOL.   I. 


RICHMOND,  VA.: 

-WHITTET  &  SHEPPERSON,  COR.    IOTH  &  MAIN  STREETS, 
1884. 


COPYRIGHT 

BY 
MRS.  GEORGE  W.  BAGBY. 

1884. 


Printed  by  Bound  by 

WHITTET  &  SHEPPERSON,  JEXKINS  &  WALTHAL, 

Richmond,  Ya.  Richmond,  Ta. 


TOI57 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


~TTN  presenting  to  the  public  the  Selections  front 
-"*"•  the  Writings  of  Dr.  Bagby  which  appear  in  this 
volume,  the  compilers  desire  to  say  that  the  purpose 
they  have  had  in  view  has  been  more  to  exhibit  the 
varied  and  widely  diverse  fields  in  which  his  mind 
sought  pasturage,  and  to  illustrate  the  great  versa- 
tility of  style  in  which  his  thoughts  found  utterance, 
than  to  give  place  only  to  those  productions  of  his 
pen  which,  at  their  first  appearance,  were  received 
with  the  strongest  evidences  of  general  favor.  They 
are  therefore  prepared  for  many  expressions  of  dis- 
appointment that  the  selections  do  not  include  this 
or  that  article  which  some  particular  reader  desired 
to  see,  in  preference  to  any  or  all,  perhaps,  that  the 
book  contains.  The  result,  they  are  persuaded,  would 
not  have  been  different,  however  much  the  contents 
of  the  volume,  restrained  within  its  present  compass, 


VI  ADVERTISEMENT. 

had  been  varied.  The  disappointed,  though  not  the 
same  in  person,  would  probably  not  have  been  fewer 
in  number.  But  from  the  encouragement  given  in 
advance  to  the  present  publication,  by  a  subscription 
which  has  taken  up  nearly  the  whole  edition,  they 
feel  warranted  in  believing  that  they  may  yet  meet 
the  desires  of  all  by  the  production  of  one  or  more 
additional  volumes,  for  which  the  material,  some  of 
which  has  never  been  in  print,  is  abundant.  They 
willingly  put  themselves  at  the  service  of  the  public 
in  the  matter,  and  will  be  governed  by  such  evi- 
dences of  the  general  wish  as  may  reach  them.  Per- 
haps it  may  not  be  considered  out  of  place  if  they 
use  the  present  opportunity  to  suggest  that  all  per- 
sons wrho  may  desire  to  be  considered  subscribers  to 
a  second  volume,  uniform  in  size,  style  and  price  with 
this,  forward  their  orders  at  once. 

In  referring  to  the  admirable  biographical  and 
critical  sketch  of  the  author,  for  which  they  are 
indebted  to  the  graceful  and  scholarly  pen  of  Rev. 
Mr.  Gregory,  the  compilers  feel  constrained  to  say 
that  the  allusions  which  it  contains  personal  to  them- 
selves appear  under  that  gentleman's  explicit  injunc- 
tion that  they  should  not  be  omitted  or  changed. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  Vli 

For  the  information  of  those  who  never  saw  the 
author,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  add  that  the  like- 
ness of  him  which  accompanies  the  volume  is  as 
nearly  perfect  as  such  things  can  ever  be. 

Communications  may  be  addressed  to 

MBS.  GEORGE  W.  BAGBY, 

Richmond,  Va. . 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH,         .         .        ....  xiii 

THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN, 1 

JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY,    .         .         .         .         .  56 

THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR,          ......  109 

CANAL  REMINISCENCES, 122 

THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS,           .        .        .  142 

MY  VILE  BEARD, 149 

CORNFIELD  PEAS, 173 

MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION,     ....  193 

MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES,  .        .        .  233 

FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX, 247 

A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS, 261 

MEEKINS'S  TWINSES, 273 

IT  is  OMNIPOTENT, 284 

SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA, 303 

THE  PAWNEE  WAR, 322 

FLIZE, 333 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHARGE  TO  THE  KNIGHTS  AT  A  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT 

AT  KlCHMOND,  ON  THE  4TH  OF  JULY,      .        .        .  336 

THE  EECOED  OF  VIRGINIA, 341 

UvWiMMiN, 352 

AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR, 360 

JUD.  BROWNIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  RUBENSTEIN'S  PLAYING,  .  392 

THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE,     .......  399 

AFTER  APPOMATTOX, 402 


*  What  would'st  thou  have  the  great  good  man  obtain  ? 

•Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends  ! 
Hath  he  not  always  riehes — always  friends — 
The  great  good  man  ?    Three  treasures,  love,  and  light, 
And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  an  infant's  breath ; 
And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or  night, 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death !  " 

Coleridge. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY, 

BY  EDWAKD  S.  GKEGOBT. 


call  of  death  has  often  proved  an  evangel  to 
the  man  of  letters  in  more  than  one  way.  Out- 
side the  small  circle  of  his  personal  tangency,  such  a 
laborer  is  known  to  the  public  mainly  through  one 
or  the  other  of  two  ways,  which  are  equally  open  to 
the  liability  of  unjust  misunderstanding.  One  class 
of  people  among  those  who  read  are  led  by  their 
ignorance  to  find  in  every  production  of  the  literary 
artist  the  reflection  of  personal  experience,  or  the 
rehearsal  of  some  theory  or  opinion  called  forth  by 
conditions  of  supposed  individual  application.  To 
these  bad  judges  all  literary  composition  is  subject- 
ive, and  the  historian  of  heroes  must  needs  be  a 
hero,  and  the  poet  of  sentiment  must  needs  be  a  lover. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  school  whose  cynicism 
conducts  to  an  exactly  opposite  error.  The  writer 
is  an  actor,  say  these ;  he  can  argue  any  cause,  he 
•can  feign  any  emotion.  And  they  believe,  or  affect 
to  believe,  that  his  character  is  to  be  read  from  his 
books,  as  Hebrew  is  translated  from  its  text,  by 
reading  backwards. 


XIV  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

Neither  of  these  broad  rules  is  true,  as,  indeed, 
there  is  no  broad  rule  that  is  true,  unless  with  large 
and  liberal  exceptions.  Least  of  all  can  any  strict 
measure  be  applied  to  the  moods  and  emanations  of 
genius,  the  range  of  whose  vision  is  so  much  higher 
and  wider  than  that  of  the  makers  of  any  such  rigid 
canons.  Yet  from  the  infliction  and  endurance  of 
this  injustice  the  man  of  genius  may  not  wholly  hope 
to  escape,  till  his  soul  ascends  "to  where,  beyond 
these  voices,  there  is  peace." 

When  death  comes,  there  is  added  a  new  comfort 
to  that  of  relief  and  release  from  the  throes  of  in- 
tellectual labor  and  the  inner  spiritual  conflict  be- 
tween the  sea  and  the  sun.  The  veil,  as  at  the  in- 
auguration of  some  stately  statue,  falls  suddenly  away, 
withdrawn  by  the  hand  of  the  angel;  and  to  guess 
and  gossip,  to  report  and  misrepresentation,  succeeds 
the  fair  image  of  THE  MAN,  as  life  made  and  framed 
him,  and  as  death  found  and  left  him,  in  the  true 
lineaments  and  fast  colors  which  Time  himself  shall 
but  render  more  clear  and  firm. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch,  though  widely  known 
throughout  the  Republic,  and  for  years  a  dear  guest 
in  many  homes  of  Virginia,  though  he  loved  and 
sought  society,  shared  the  same  fate  of  misconcep- 
tion, or  of  inadequate  conception,  till  death  drew  the 
veil  and  revealed  the  true  proportions  of  his  mental 
and  moral  manhood.  The  nominis  umbra  of  fame 
now  gives  way  to  a  more  sacred  and  more  precious 
personality,  as  through  the  hallowed  tapers  that  light 
the  tomb,  it  is  seen  that  even  the  powers  of  a  great 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XV 

intellect,  greatly  enriched  and  greatly  employed,  are 
eclipsed  by  the  graces  and  private  virtues  that  "smell 
sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 

The  main  facts  that  punctuate  the  life  and  literary 
labors  of  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY  may  be  briefly  re- 
cited. The  career  of  the  man  and  the  litterateur  was 
largely  professional,  and  may  be  left  to  find  popular 
interpretation  from  the  list  and  order  of  his  works. 
The  present  volume  introduces  these  but  imperfectly 
and  in  part  to  the  reading  w^orld.  But  if  it  fulfil  its 
mission,  and  if  the  present  generation  prove  able  to 
appreciate  and  admire  the  mingled  idyl  and  epic  in 
which  Dr.  Bagby  has  embalmed  the  heroic  and  po- 
etic Virginia  of  the  past,  some  image  may  be  formed, 
some  memory  quickened  of  one  to  whom  many  sins, 
if  such  there  were,  should  be  remitted — "for  he 
loved  much."  It  is  a  service  whose  benison  will  af- 
fect all  the  future  of  Virginia,  however  little  it  may 
be  realized,  to  recall  a  high  spirit  which  was  faithful 
to  the  purest  ideals  in  the  midst  of  wasting  infirmi- 
ties and  distresses ;  a  spirit,  not  inferior  to  Milton's  in 
the  intensity  of  its  "  unbought  loyalty,"  whose  passion 
was  lavished  on  home,  on  fatherland,  and  on  free- 
dom,— on  objects  whose  beauty  wrought  a  changeless 
spell  on  one  of  the  chastest  of  imaginations,  and 
whose  riches  took,  in  the  eyes  of  the  patriot  and  de- 
votee, the  place  which  titles,  power,  and  wealth  exact 
from  the  coarse  and  the  common-hearted. 

Such  a  lover  of  the  past,  for  the  mere  sake  of  the 
beautiful  good  buried  with  it ;  such  a  patriot,  in  an 
unselfish  life-battle,  as  the  champion  and  crusader  in 


XVI  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

behalf  of  these  lapsed  and  unvalued  virtues ;  such  a 
poet,  in  the  divine  power  which  lay  in  him  of  fol- 
lowing the  thread  of  gold  through  all  the  cloth  of 
frieze  which  so  often  obscures  it,  was  the  dead 
Bagby.  Cross  and  crown  are  graven  together  on  the 
column  which  keeps  guard  over  his  ashes ;  and  the 
good  sword  is  dust  and  rust.  It  remains  to  those 
who  mount  watch  over  his  name,  his  memory,  and 
his  works,  to  tell  the  world  the  story  of  the  sacrifices 
and  services  through  which  he  attained  his  victory 
and  Te  Deum. 

Dr.  Bagby  was  born  in  the  very  heart  of  Virginia, 
in  the  county  of  Buckingham,  on  August  13th,  1828. 
The  section  in  which  he  first  saw  the  light  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  It  lies  at  the  roots  of  the 
Blue  Ridge;  its  social  traits  and  genealogies  are  of 
the  East,  and  its  location,  though  south  of  the 
James,  is  near  the  natural  continuation  of  the  great 
Valley.  In  short,  it  stood  and  stands  next  the  very 
heart  of  the  Old  Dominion,  and  was  the  fit  mother 
of  one  whose  Virginia  had  no  solar  nor  polar  points. 
In  one  respect,  especially,  Buckingham  was  rich :  in 
the  facilities  it  afforded  for  the  study  of  the  pecu- 
liarities of  negro  dialect,  fetich,  and  other  and  all 
racial  idiosyncrasies.  Never  was  there  an  apter 
pupil  than  the  boy  Bagby,  since  George  Borrow 
made  himself  master  of  the  Romany  Lil.  There 
have  been  quick  and  sympathetic  geniuses,  as  Mr. 
Joel  Harris,  Mrs.  Stabler,  Mrs.  Champney,  and  oth- 
ers, who  reduced  the  negro  patois  very  near  to  a 
science  both  of  accuracy  and  insight ;  but  it  may  be 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBT.  XV11 

doubted  whether  our  dead  friend  did  not  know  the- 
Yirginia  negroes  more  fully  and  deeply  than  even 
these.  They  made  to  his  eyes  a  large  part  of  the 
landscape  of  the  Rome  that  waa;  they  gave  it  at 
once  a  poetic  and  a  pathetic  element  of  interest; 
they  illustrated  the  principle  of  Emerson's  theory  of 
-contrasts : 

"  Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 
Of  thee  from  the  hill  top  looking  down." 

But,  beyond  all,  they  tendered  the  claim  of  helpless- 
ness, of  ignorance,  and  of  dependence ;  and  to  that 
appeal  one  of  the  most  tender  hearts  among  Chris- 
tians never  failed  to  respond  with  tears. 

As  Boeotia  was  the  right  home  of  Pindar  and  Tyr- 
tseus,  so  was  this  central  county,  with  its  wealth  of 
black  diamonds  of  every  hue  and  form  of  originality 
and  individuality,  the  right  school  for  one  who  was 
destined  to  prove  no  less  than  the  very  Dickens  and 
Shakespeare  of  the  Virginia  negro. 

Dr.  Bagby's  father  was  a  merchant  of  Lynchburg ; 
his  mother's  maiden  name  was  Evans — a  patronymic 
that  reappears  in  the  letters  of  Mozis  Addums. 
From  his  childhood  George  Bagby  was  a  victim  of 
incurable  dyspepsia,  as  may  be  read  in  the  "  Canal 
Reminiscences"  and  he  might  any  time  have  adopted 
the  language  which  John  Randolph  addressed  to  his 
attendant  as  he  lay  dying  in  Philadelphia  :  "  Doctor, 
I  have  been  sick  all  my  life."  He  celebrates  the 
disease  in  the  humorous  verses  entitled  "  Phil. 
Jones's,"  and  all  his  life  was  an  unequal  battle  with 


XV111  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

it,  though  doubtless,  as  in  Carlyle's  case,  its  very 
misery  may  have  acted  as  a  mental  stimulation.  Dr. 
Bagby  was  educated  at  Princeton,  N".  J.,  and  at 
Newark,  Del.,  under  the  tuition  of  the  late  Dr.  John 
S.  Hart,  one  of  the  best  of  men  and  of  teachers,  who 
gave  him  an  honored  place  in  the  Professor's  Manual 
of  American  Literature  (pp.  452—453).  At  the  end 
of  his  sophomore  year  in  Delaware  College,  young 
Bagby  (now  eighteen  years  old)  began  the  study  of 
medicine,  and  in  due  time  took  his  regular  degree  of 
M.  D.  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  at  Philadel- 
phia. He  then  removed  to  Lynchburg,  where  his 
father  lived,  to  practice,  and  he  hung  out  his  sign  in 
front  of  a  tenement  that  then  stood  on  the  site  of  the 
now  stately  Opera  House  of  that  city.  But  it  may 
be  doubted  if  really  he  ever  attended  half  a  dozen 
cases.  His  was  the  experience  of  the  poet  Keats,  in 
more  than  one  way  repeated ;  for  both  had  the  same 
educational  advantages,  each  abandoned  the  profes 
sion  of  medicine  for  that  of  letters,  and  both,  long 
years  after,  would  often  astonish  the  regular  adepts 
in  the  art  by  the  range  and  accuracy  of  their  techni- 
cal knowledge.*  By  a  law,  however,  as  sure  as  that 
which  rules  the  courses  of  gravitation,  Bagby  soon 
found,  without  seeking,  the  career  for  which  every 
endowment  of  nature  had  copiously  prepared  and 
deliberately  dedicated  him.  The  Virginian  of  Lynch- 
burg, founded  in  1808,  was  then  edited  by  James 
McDonald,  Esq.,  since  Secretary  of  the  Common- 

*  Cowden  Clarke  is  authority  as  to  Keats  ;  my  own  observation 
as  to  Dr.  Bagby.— E.  S.  G. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XIX 

wealth  and  Adjutant- General  of  Virginia,  to  whom,, 
ten  years  after,  Dr.  Bagby  wrote  the  tribute  in 
^Blue  Eyes"  that  he  "  was  essentially  a  gentleman." 
To  him,  as  to  a  kindred,  even  brother  spirit,  in  cul- 
ture and  humanity,  the  young  and  eccentric  stranger 
was  naturally  magnetized.  Those  were  the  good  old 
days  when  people  had  plenty  of  elbow-room.  When 
the  editor  was  absent,  his  friend  took  his  place ;  and 
under  this  gate-way  of  locum  tenens  Dr.  Bagby  made 
his  way  upon  the  stage  which  he  afterwards  so  widely 
and  so  luminously  filled.  It  was  a  happy  omen  that,, 
on  the  appearance  of  his  very  first  contribution,  an  edi- 
torial article  on  Christmas,  the  town  was  taken  by 
storm,  and  saw,  as  was  said  of  Macaulay's  Milton,  that 
a  new  star  had  risen  above  the  horizon.  But  "the 
Dean  could  write  beautifully  about  a  broom-stick ;" 
and  there  followed  a  description  of  the  snow-coasting 
down  St.  Paul's  Hill  in  Lynchburg,  and  an  account 
of  a  skating  adventure,  both  humorously  ascribed  to 
Alex.  McDonald,  Esq.,  and  the  former  afterwards 
embodied  in  the  story  of  "  Blue  Eyes"  that  gave 
token  of  a  new  and  idiomatic  phase  of  pictorial  genius. 
Sketch  after  sketch  rapidly  followed,  some  of  which 
are  included  in  this  volume,  and  all  of  which  are  as 
well  worthy  to  live  as  the  earlier  essays  of  Thackeray 
or  Lamb ;  appearing  in  the  poverty  of  literary  appar- 
atus in  Virginia,  for  the  most  part  as  editorial  articles 
in  the  Virginian.  Among  such  was  the  essay  en- 
titled "  The  Sacred  Furniture  Warerooms"  which 
neither  Addison  nor  Irving  would  have  disowned, 
Dr.  Bagby  has  said  to  the  writer  that  his  literary 


:XX  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

% 

fertility  at  that  time  was  prodigious.  He  must  have 
read  ravenously  also.  Meanwhile,  too,  he  was  a  man 
about  town,  and  was  known  for  a  genius,  and  for  one 
who  would  make,  or  had  indeed  already  made,  a 
shining  mark. 

Labor  and  fame  came  crowding  upon  him  suddenly? 
as  the  fruit  of  this  local  distinction,  and  from  the  in- 
spiration of  this  local  success.  Early  in  the  fifties, 
the  Lynchburg  Express,  a  paper  founded,  and  for 
some  years  conducted,  by  the  late  Hudson  Garland, 
came  into  the  possession  of  Dr.  Bagby  and  his  life-long 
friend,  the  late  Capt.  George  Woodville  Latham — 
.another  rare  and  lit  spirit,  too  soon  involved  in  the 
damps  of  disease  and  the  arrest  of  death.  I  have 
seen  issues  of  this  old-time  journal;  and  both  its  ed- 
itors were  my  heart's  dear  kin.  It  was  worthy  of 
the  twin-stars — the  Castor  and  Pollux — at  its  head. 
Bravely  and  brightly  for  two  or  three  years  the  gal- 
lant young  friends  discharged  their  public  trust. 
Other  graceful  pens  diversified  and  relieved  their  la- 
bors. But  the  business  management  was  neglected 
or  ill-managed;  and  the  Express — fortunately  for 
Bagby — became  numbered  among  Lynchburg  epi- 
taphs and  eclipses. 

During  this  time,  Dr.  Bagby  wrote  several  articles 
that  were  published  in  Harper's  Magazine.  One  of 
these  was  entitled  "  My  Wife,  and  My  Theory  about 
Wives" — a  specimen  of  sentimental  extravaganza 
worthy  of  the  hand  which  traced  the  shadowy  and 
sacred  image  of  the  lost  love  of  Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley.  Another  was  entitled  "  The  Virginia  Editor" 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXI 

and  was  a  burlesque  character-sketch  of  the  swagger- 
ing, duelling  and  drinking  soi-disant  "Colonel,"  who 
then  only  too  often  represented  the  power  of  the 
press  in  the  sunny  South. 

It  was  professedly  a  caricature ;  and  it  had  been 
shown,  before  its  appearance,  as  a  good  joke,  to  nu- 
merous journalistic  friends.  Yet,  when  it  was  pub- 
lished, one  of  these  was  induced  by  other  persons  to 
regard  it  as  an  assault  upon  himself.  He  sent  there- 
upon a  challenge,  which  was  promptly  accepted;* 
seconds  were  named ;  Capt.  Latham  for  Bagby,  and 
Roger  A.  Pry  or  for  the  party  of  the  second  part. 
Bladensburg  was  reached ;  the  preliminaries  were  ad- 
justed, and  the  principals  took  position.  At  this 
critical  moment,  a  hack  arrived  containing  the  Hon. 
Thomas  S.  Bocock,  then  a  member  of  Congress,  and 
a  friend  of  all  parties,  through  whose  efforts  the 
quarrel  was  composed,  and  everybody  sent  about  hi& 
pacific  business. 

The  collapse  of  the  Express  gave  to  each  of  its- 
two  editors  more  congenial  employment,  and  an 
ampler  field.  Through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Wm. 
M.  Semple,  lately  before  the  associate  editor  of  the 
Lynchburg  Virginian,  and  at  that  time  correspon- 
dent at  Washington  of  the  New  Orleans  Crescent, 
Dr.  Bagby  was  promoted  to  the  latter  position ;  and, 
through  family  influence,  Woodville  Latham  was 
employed  as  clerk  of  the  Naval  Committee  of  the 
House  of  Representatives. 

*  "George  had  all  sorts  of  good  pluck,  and  plenty  of  it;  he 
was  not  afraid  of  any  man's  face  on  earth." — Dr.  H,  G.  L. 


XXLL  GEOKGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

There  must  have  been  rare  times  when  these  two 
favored  children  of  the  muses  were  re-united  at  the 
capital  city.  They  were  worthy  of  one  another,  and 
each  celebrated  the  other  in  many  a  grotesque  page. 
Latham  was  the  "X)ans"  of  the  Addums  letters,  and 
the  Rocky  Murdrum  of  the  story  of  " Blue  Eyes" 
Long  years  after,  ""Woody"  gasped  ^  Send  for 
George  /"  and  so  fell  asleep  in  the  arms  of  his  tearful 
comrade.  It  was  the  destiny  of  one  to  be  a  dreamer, 
a  poet ;  and  not  much  that  he  dreamed  took  a  living 
form;  but  Bagby  must  have  been  a  dauntless  and 
indefatigable  laborer,  and  the  .mere  list  of  the  publi- 
cations for  which  he  wrote  affords  proof  of  his  heroic 
industry  and  of  the  fatal  fertility  of  his  genius. 
Besides  the  Crescent,  (in  those  days,  remember,  his 
letters  were  quasi  editorial  and  had  even  a  greater 
weight  than  that  of  mere  local  comment),  he  corres- 
ponded regularly  for  the  Charleston  Mercury  and 
the  Richmond  Dispatch,  and  wTOte  copiously  for  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  sometimes  for  the 
Atlantic  Monthly.  It  was  through  the  medium  of 
the  Messenger  that  he  lodged  his  first  deep  and  popu- 
lar impression  as  an  humorous  writer.  It  may  be 
questioned  whether  anything  of  a  racier  flavor,  free 
from  slang,  yet  fresh  as  dawn-dew  with  idioms  of 
the  heart  and  hearth;  whether  anything  of  more 
sylvan  depth  and  of  more  natural  oddity  and  sim- 
plicity ever  saw  the  light,  than  the  "  Letters  of  Mozis 
Addums  to  Billy  Evans  of  Kurdsville"  in  which  the 
society,  the  man-traps  and  the  wonders  of  Washing- 
ton city  are  described  by  a  rustic  writer  to  a  rustic 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XX111 

friend.  The  correspondent  is  represented  as  visiting 
the  capital  to  procure  a  patent  for  a  machine  of  his 
invention,  for  executing  his  idea  of  perpetual  mo- 
tion. An  amiable  and  virtuous  Irish  servant-girl 
rescues  him  out  of  a  number  of  scrapes,  and  A.ddums 
ends  by  marrying  her. 

Soon  after  this  performance,  John  R.  Thompson, 
one  of  the  best  beloved  of  the  sons  of  song,  resigned 
the  editorial  chair  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messen- 
ger',  to  become  the  editor  of  the  Field  and  Farm,  of 
New  York.  He  was  given  a  complimentary  and  val- 
edictory dinner  at  Zetelle's,  by  his  friends,  on  May 
15th,  1860,  over  which  the  Hon.  William  H.  Macfar- 
land  presided ;  and  it  was  casually  mentioned,  in  the 
report  of  the  banquet,  in  the  Mewenger  for  June,  that 
'"among  the  invited  guests  were  John  Esten  Cooke, 
Esq.,  Dr.  H.  Grey  Latham  and  Dr.  Bagby."  The  very 
terms  of  the  announcement  signified  to-  those  who 
were  anyway  behind  the  scenes,  that  Dr.  Bagby  him- 
.  self  had  written  the  account,  and  that  himself  had  vir- 
tually already  succeeded  to  the  tripod  of  the  magazine 
from  which  no  less  a  seer  than  Edgar  A.  Poe  had 
-once  spoken.  And  so  he  had,  as  the  title-page  of 
the  next  issue  announced.  Whatever  the  prestige 
with  which  he  entered  upon  the  discharge  of  his  du- 
ties, the  pressure  and  perplexities  of  the  situation 
were  all  adverse.  In  other  words,  there  could  be  at 
the  South,  as  at  that  time,  no  purely  literary  work,  or 
literary  leisure,  when  the  very  air  was  saturated  with 
politics,  and,  no  more  than  religion,  could  literature 
^resist  its  access.  Yet  the  volume  of  the  Messenger 


XXIV  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

for  1860  will  be  found  to  contain  critical  and  creative 
work  in  quite  a  notable  degree,  and  of  a  high  order 
of  merit.  The  romaunt  of  "Blue  Eye  and  Battle- 
wick"  a  Christmas  story,  to  some  extent,  perhaps,  an 
unconscious  imitation  of  Dickens,  but  altogether  sui 
generis,  and  like  the  echoes  in  Ireland  and  in  Ossian. 
which  repeat  what  they  hear  with  variations  of  their 
own — ran  through  this  volume  of  the  Messenger,  in 
five  installments:  January-May.  Dr.  Bagby  pro- 
nounced this  story  a  "failure"  in  after  years;  but  it 
bears  as  unmistakable  traces  of  his  genius  as  any  of 
his  writings,  and  is  only  weak  in  the  too  close  fidelity 
to  individual  specimens  in  the  delineation  of  his 
characters.  Yet  those  descriptions  were  as  vivid  as 
if  photograph  and  phonograph  had  united  to  catch 
and  fix  the  minutest  traits.  Many  minor  sketches 
accompanied  the  unfolding  of  the  "  Blue  Eyes"  story,, 
and  the  editorial  department  was  always  kept  full  and. 
fresh.  In  it  Dr.  Bagby  defended  the  rights  of  the 
South,  till,  high  over  the  noises  of  the  press  and  the 
clamor  of  orators,  rose  suddenly  and  rudely  the 
sharp  thunder  from  Sumter,  and  the  war  was  flagrant. 
Though  wholly  unfitted,  physically,  Bagby  entered 
the  ranks  as  a  private,  and  was  found  with  the  ear- 
liest troops  who  were  assembled  at  Manassas.  There, 
fortunately,  he  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  General 
Beauregard's  chief  of  staff,  and  was,  in  part,  relieved 
of  duties  of  which  he  was  incapable,  by  being  de- 
tailed for  clerical  work  at  headquarters.  It  was  not 
long,  however,  before  his  health  proved  inadequate  for 
even  this  service,  and  he  was  given  a  final  discharge. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXV 

Resuming  his  profession,  he  sang  the  songs  of  a 
nation,  while  others  fought  its  battles  and  made  its 
laws. 

We  write  "sang"  not  unadvisedly,  for  at  this 
period  appeared  the  one  poem  of  Dr.  Bagby's  which, 
marrying  the  spirit  of  the  Revolution,  can  never  die. 
His  was  the  mission  by  it,  like  the  good  Froissart, 
•"  to  encourage  all  valorous  hearts,  and  to  show  them 
honorable  examples."  If  less  high  and  heroic  than 
the  ballads  of  Koerner,  there  was  great  quiet  strength 
and  stimulation  to  sacrifice  in  the  strain  which  lent 
love  and  fame  to 

"  Brave  old  Tom  with  the  empty  sleeve," 

whose  lost  arm  slept  in  unmarked  honor  under  the 
Malvern  turf.  As  much  as  any  other,  this  was  the 
poetic  expression  of  the  War  of  Independence,  em- 
bodying its  sacrifice,  and  summing  up  many  a  record 
of  its  Helden-'buch.  Through  every  difficulty  and 
over  every  obstacle  —  the  scarcity  of  paper  and 
skilled  labor,  the  absence  of  competent  assistance  of 
every  kind,  and  the  ever  dwindling  Confederate  ra- 
tion, Dr.  Bagby  sustained  the  Messenger  till  its  pro- 
prietorship changed,  in  1864,  and  then  laid  down  the 
burden,  having  fought  the  good  fight  with  unfalter- 
ing courage. 

Besides  the  magazine,  Dr.  Bagby  performed,  dur- 
ing the  war,  a  vast  amount  of  literary  and  journal- 
istic work.  He  was  the  correspondent,  at  the  Con- 
federate Capital,  of  every  Southern  paper  that  could 
secure  the  favor  of  being  represented  by  him:  the 

3A 


XXVI  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

Mobile  Register,  the  Memphis  Appeal,  the  Colum- 
bus, Ga.,  Sun,  the  Charleston  Mercury,  and  others,, 
besides  his  regular  service  for  some  years  as  editorial 
contributor  to  the  Richmond  Whig,  of  which  his 
friend  McDonald  had  become  the  editor.  His  bold- 
ness of  comment  on  the  course  of  events  within  the 
ill-starred  Confederacy  led  him  to  write  occasionally 
for  the  Richmond  Examiner,  though  he  did  not  ap- 
prove, in  general,  its  reckless  method.  His  inter- 
course with  the  editor  of  the  Examiner  gave  him  ma- 
terial for  the  sketch  published  shortly  after  the  war,, 
entitled,  "John  M.  DanieUs  Latch-Key"  Besides 
his  work  on  the  papers  mentioned,  Bagby  wrote  bril- 
liant articles  for  the  Southern  Illustrated  News,  and 
was  every  way  useful.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
trace  all  the  currents  and  varieties  of  his  labors 
during  these  years,  from  his  solid  logic  for  the  cause 
contributed  to  the  London  Index,  after  Thompson's 
departure  for  Europe,  to  the  news  letters,  bristling 
with  poignant  paragraphs,  which  he  sent  to  the 
Selma  Times,  the  Columbus  Sun,  and  many  other 
Southern  papers. 

These  labors,  viewed  through  the  calm  vista  of  the 
long  after-time,  afford  two  occasions  of  thought. 
Despite  all  the  heroism,  and  the  wonder  and  the 
magnitude  of  their  contribution  to  the  cause  of  Con- 
federate independence,  these  letters,  covering  the 
whole  broad  scope  of  history,  principle,  argument, 
appeal,  justice  and  persuasion,  failed,  just  as  the 
sword  of  the  great  Lee  failed  in  the  field.  Then,  as 
to  the  personal  consequences,  the  collapse  of  the 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.          XXVU 

cause,  in  which  he  trusted  as  he  did  in  the  gospel  of 
God,  broke  his  heart  as  it  did  that  of  the  Commander. 
Of  these,  and  of  many  like  deaths,  the  image  of  the 
Irish  poet  is  startling  in  the  truth  of  its  realization : 
the  crack  of  the  chords,  on  the  mute  harp  hanging 
at  midnight,  on  the  tapestry  of  Tara : 

"And  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives, 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 
To  show  that  still  she  lives  /" 

AFTER  THE  WAR. 

The  success  of  Dr.  Bagby  before  and  during  the 
war  well  justified  his  seeking  to  pursue  in  New  York 
a  journalistic  and  literary  career.  His  disability  in 
this  line,  by  reason  of  the  loss  in  part  of  his  eye- 
sight, induced  him  to  enter  the  lecturing  field,  in 
which  a  rich  reception  and  a  bountiful  harvest 
awaited  him.  More  than  that,  his  choice  of  a  new 
profession  involved  his  return  to  Virginia,  now  made 
doubly  dear  to  him  in  that,  in  1863,  he  had  espoused 
Miss  Parke  Chamberlayne,  of  Richmond,  daughter 
of  Dr.  Lewis  W.  Chamberlayne,  who  represented  in 
her  own  person  at  least  two  of  the  noble  lines  of 
Normans  whose  shields  are  suspended  in  Battle  Ab- 
bey— the  lines  of  Chamberlayne  and  of  D'Aubigny 
[Dabney] ;  illustrious  English  and  Yirginian  lineages. 
Let  the  laurel  of  honor  to  this  lady  of  love  and  grace 
be  deferred  to  a  later  page,  while  we  deal  at  present 
with  the  fortunes  of  the  lecturer,  and  the  turn  that 
was  given  to  the  tide  of  his  life  by  this  new  venture. 

The  profession  was  not  wholly  fresh  to  him,  a* 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

himself  relates.    ''Previous  to  the  war  he  had  been 
fairly  successful  with  his  lecture  entitled,  '  An  Apol- 
ogy for  Fools,'  but  in  the  winter  of  18 65-' 6,  his  lec- 
ture on  i  Bacon  and  Greens,  or  the  Native  Virginian,' 
fairly  took  the  city  of  Richmond  by  storm,  and  was 
as  great  a  success  throughout  Virginia  and  Maryland." 
His   next   essay,  "The  Disease  Called  Love,"  is 
perhaps  the  most  popular  of  all  his  lectures,  with  old 
and  young.   In  addition  to  these  was  another  lecture, 
entitled  "  Women-Folks,"  and  one  on  the  "  Virginia 
Negro,"  which  was  only  faulty  in  its  depth  of  truth. 
Its  delivery  in  New  York  at  once  drew  the  partisan 
line,  which  renders  fair  judgment  not  only  impos- 
sible, but   undesirable.     Nobody  really  wanted   to 
know  the  actual  state  of  the  case,  and  the  preacher  of 
truth  allowed  himself  to  be  discouraged  and  repulsed 
by  the  first  chill  reception  which  he  suffered.     It  is 
stated  that  Mr.  Moses  P.  Handy,  then  employed  on 
the  Tribune,  left  word  with  Mr.  Winter,  the  Tribune 
•critic,  to  give  the  lecturer  a  good  notice;  but  the 
message  went  astray,  and  Winter  was  very  wintry, 
even  disparaging  in  a  flippant  way  the  lecturer's  air 
and  bearing.     This  was  not  very  refreshing  to  a  spe- 
cialist who  had  given  twenty  years  to  the  mastery  of 
his  theme;  but  more  than  the  particular  miscarriage 
was  the  conviction,  for  which  it  gave  occasion,  that  the 
North  did  not  really  desire  to  know  the  status  of  the 
South  or  the  condition  of  the  negro,  but  preferred  to 
keep  him  as  an  unsolved  factor,  to  be  made  use  of, 
pro  or  con.,  as  the  necessities  of  a  sectional  party 
might  seem  to  require. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXIX 

So  from  North  back  to  South,  in  obedience  to  the 
law  of  nature,  the  strayed  son  of  Virginia  drifted. 
Virginia  was  his  natural  and  magnetic  home,  and 
here  lay  the  line  and  here  sat  the  spring  of  his  duty 
during  the  period  of  reconstruction,  in  whose  pro- 
cesses, so  far  as  relates  to  the  factors  of  real  historic 
greatness,  he  had  no  sort  of  faith,  while  as  to  the 
progress  and  speedy  realization  of  material  wealth 
and  power  he  was  ready  to  approve  himself  an  ear- 
nest worker  and  a  firm  believer. 

During  1868  Dr.  Bagby  had  an  experience  of 
strictly  independent  journalism.  He  established  him- 
self at  Orange  Courthouse  as  the  editor  of  the  Na- 
tive Virginian,  and  not  only  wrote  copiously  for  it, 
but  in  the  same  style  and  spirit  as  well  for  many 
other  Virginia  journals.  He  was  not  idle  either  in 
the  lecture  business,  and  even  when  not  engaged  in 
delivery  and  composition  was  always  active  in  col- 
lecting, sorting,  and  recording  material,  in  a  system 
of  scrap-books  like  that  of  the  late  Charles  Reade. 
In  the  laboratory  of  an  ever-active  and  thought-tor- 
mented brain  these  natural  ores  were  painfully  and 
gradually  fused  and  formed  into  proportions  of 
grace,  and  brave  flights  of  speculation  and  imagi- 
nation which  many,  even  among  educated  men, 
lacked  the  width  of  wing  to  follow.  But  a  new 
change  was  at  hand — a  change  that  afforded  a  fresh 
illustration  of  the  fidelity  of  early  friendship,  which 
is,  as  the  love  of  the  Douglas,  "  tendir  and  treu." 

In  1869,  G.  C.  Walker  was  elected  governor  of 
Virginia  as  a  liberal  Republican ;  and  under  his  ad- 


XXX  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

ministration,  and  that  of  his  successors,  Gen.  James 
L.  Kemper  and  Col.  F.  W.  M.  Holliday,  Hon.  James 
McDonald  served  as  Secretary  of  State.  Faith- 
ful to  the  tartan  blood  which  he  bore,  and  true  to 
the  obligations  of  old  times;  secure  too  in  the  sense 
of  the  eminent  fitness  of  his  friend,  Gen.  McDonald 
appointed  Dr.  Bagby  assistant  secretary,  and  as  such 
custodian  of  the  State  Library.  The  duties  of  the 
position,  although  in  a  measure  confining  and  irksome, 
he  discharged  with  rare  fidelity,  till  he  was  removed 
by  the  change  of  State  administration.  As  before, 
he  had  always  cultivated  letters  for  their  love,  so 
now  again  he  wooed  and  sued  the  muses,  for  the  sake 
of  the  fruit  which  he  hoped  they  would  yield,  and  for 
the  redress  of  public  wrongs  which  he  and  other  Vir- 
ginians now  felt  to  be  growing  grievous.  And  yet, 
I  have  always  thought  this  political  course  was  only 
a  minor  consequence  and  incident  of  his  theory  of 
philosophy  and  of  social  statics.  Never  was  there 
loyalty  to  a  dead  cause  such  as  his  since  the  days  of 
the  Scotch  Jacobites;  his  heart  was  ever  with  the 
"  Charlie  over  the  water,"  when  indeed  there  was  no 
king  except  in  his  thought.  And  the  aching  know- 
ledge that  he  loved  a  dead  dream  weighed  on  him 
always,  and  then  broke  his  heart;  and  he  left  other 
less  consecrated  men  to  face  the  new  world  of  un- 
tried and  'raw  conditions,  while  to  himself,  as  when 
the  "  whole  round  table  was  dissolved,"  was  given  of 
God  the  freedom  of  the  black-stoled  barge,  and  the 
weeping  queens,  and  the  comfort  of  green  valleys 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXXI 

and  deep  peace  in  the  isle  of  Avillion,  beyond  the 
seas. 

Little  remains  to  be  said  of  his  life.  The  fact  of 
its  incessant  activity  is  told  in  the  mere  catalogue  of 
the  papers  to  which  he  contributed  and  the  lectures 
lie  delivered.  One  of  the  very  best  and  brightest  of 
his  creations,  about  this  time,  was  his  satire  entitled 
"  What  I  Did  with  my  Fifty  Millions"  an  evolu- 
tion, wholly  original  withal,  from  the  lamp  of 
Alnaschar  and  the  milk-maid  of  ^Esop,— or  of  Noah 
"Webster.  I  say  satire,  not  ignorant  that  the  word 
is  not  adequate  nor  accurate,  for  it  was  part  of  the 
genius  of  our  friend  that  he  created  a  school  of  style 
.and  theme  in  letters  all  his  own,  with  which  the 
terminology  of  rhetoric  has  not  much  to  do. 

Another  very  happy  idyl  was  his  "  Reminiscences 
of  Canal  Life"  in  which  his  loyal  love  of  nature 
finds  an  expression  as  strong  and  yet  simple  as  the 
mother-longing  of  a  lost  child.  In  Goethe's  Renun- 
ciants,  the  highest  culture  was  imaged  by  the  figure 
which  gazed  with  folded  palms  upon  the  ground. 
Such  was  Bagby's  reverence,  and  such  his  rapt  con- 
templation of  the  garment  of  God,  which  shows, 
through  the  drapery  of  rock  and  rill,  and  cloud  and 
storm  and  mountain,  the  august  proportions  of  the 
Eternal.  Happy  was  he,  after  all  experience  of 
doubt  and  darkness,  to  find  at  last  in  these  vast  folds 
of  form  the  evidence  and  expression  of  a  Father  of 
love  and  light,  who  comforts  and  helps  the  weak- 
hearted,  and  raises  up  those  who  fall.  In  the  peace 
of  this  faith  he  fell  asleep,  like  Stephen,  while  "all 


XXX11  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

that  sat  in  the  council,  looking  steadfastly  at  hirar 
saw  his  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel." 

During  this  period  he  composed  and  delivered 
several  of  his  best  lectures, — "  The  Old  Virginia 
Gentleman"  and  "  The  Virginia  Negro"  The  latter 
was  intended  for  delivery  North ;  but  he  found,  after 
a  brief  but  sufficient  experience,  that  the  North 
thought  they  knew  more  of  the  negro  than  he  did. 
Returning,  he  wrote  the  most  merry  and  exquisite 
of  all  his  creations, — "MeekinaeJ  Twinses" — a  fic- 
tion founded  upon  fact.  Mr.  Meekins  acquired  in  a 
week  as  wide  an  acquaintance  as  Mr.  Addums  in  a 
dozen  years;  and  the  feed  sto'  in  Rocketts  had  as 
good  a  title  to  a  place  in  the  limbus  of  genius  as 
the  "Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  or  the  City  Mildendo. 
Hereabouts  also  belongs  the  sketch  which  has  given 
him  his  widest  and  most  graven  fame, — the  sketch  of 
"JBubenstein  at  the  Piano"  which  Mr.  Watterson 
has  admitted  into  his  compilation  of  Southern  humor,, 
and  which  is  found  already  in  many  "  Readers."  I 
am  told  it  has  been  translated  into  a  German  musical 
magazine.  It  has  always  reminded  me,  in  structure,, 
— though  the  themes  are  wide  enough  apart, — of  the 
"Dream  Fugue"  attached  to  De  Quincey's  "  Vision 
of  Sudden  Death." 

After  these  writings,  Dr.  Bagby  made  for  the 
State  newspaper,  then  edited  by  Capt.  John  Hamp- 
den  Chamberlayne,  (brother  of  his  wife,  and  one  of 
the  brightest  and  best  of  the  knights  whose  accolade 
was  given  on  the  two  fields  of  battle  and  labor),  a 
trip  through  Virginia,  describing  each  stage  in  letters,. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXX111 

whose  power  of  paint  and  of  thought  surpassed  any 
production  of  the  kind  in  the  history  of  Virginian, 
journalism. 

A  like  series  of  letters,,  entitled,  "  New  England 
Through  the  Back  Door"  written  for  the  Baltimore 
Sun,  gave  us  a  Yankee-land  more  gracious,  fresh  and 
genial  even  than  the  "  Hills  of  the  Shatemuc."  Then 
came  desultory  writing  for  many  papers.  Mr.  A. 
McDonald,  editor  of  the  Lynchburg  News,  was  again, 
one  of  his  generous  friends  to  the  last ;  the  Philadel- 
phia Weekly  Times  published  one  of  his.papers;  and 
his  last  composition  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine. 

After  that,  death ;  not  all  at  once,  but  by  gradual 
stages,  as  of  a  siege.  A  sore  in  the  tongue,  the  re- 
sult of  his  life-long  dyspepsia,  became  a  cancer,  and 
brought  on  a  long  and  dreadful  ordeal  of  suffering. 
He  sought  the  relief  of  the  Healing  Springs  in  vain, 
and  then,  in  August  of  '83,  desolate  but  not  despair- 
ing, he  turned  home  to  die.  God  is  good ;  and  good 
and  great  not  only  in  His  own  direct  dealings,  but  in 
the  means  and  agents  through  which  He  works. 
The  dying  man,  the  sinking  scholar  and  philosopher,, 
the  champion,  broken  and  baffled  in  the  work  and. 
dream  of  his  life,  unconscious  how  that  this  labor  had 
been  accomplished,  not  by  any  great  coup,  but  by 
silent  and  tardy  and  gradual  stages — non  vi  sed  scepe 
cadendo — this  warrior,  who  came  home  borne  on  his 
shield,  found  a  wife  there  whose  ministrations,  de- 
vout and  profound,  chased  every  form  of  fear  and  evil 
from  his  pillow  and  path  of  slow  and  tortured  decline- 
In  Hans  Andersen's  story,  it  is  the  white  wings  of 


XXXIV          GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

the  swans  that  bear  their  sister  across  the  sea.  Here 
it  was  love,  clear  faith,  strong  courage,  worthy  of  the 
two  shields  in  Battle  Abbey,  an  utter  avTo-xgvwfft$,  and 
above  all  "the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing," which  God  blessed  and  rewarded  with  that 
perfect  submission  to  His  will  that  shall  "bring  a 
man  peace  at  the  last,"  through  the  direst  trial. 

The  foregoing  pages  have  been  written  in  vain  if 
they  have  not  conveyed  some  sense  of  the  writer's 
appreciation  of  Dr.  Bagby's  genius  and  moral  great- 
ness. "  There  is  no  man  left  in  Virginia  fit  to  lift 
the  lid  of  his  inkstand,"  wrote  Dr.  Lafferty  of  him — 
a  true  saying.  "  Never  in  Virginia  letters  shall  we 
see  his  like  again,"  wrote  John  Esten  Cooke.  All 
pens,  great  and  small,  sought,  with  the  piety  of  "  Old 
Mortality,"  to  deepen  the  inscription  of  love  and 
praise  on  his  tomb,  and  to  clear  off  the  grass  and 
weeds.  The  most  faithful  and  beautiful  of  the 
tributes  paid  to  his  memory  was  woven  from  the 
heart  through  the  pen  of  his  life-time  friend,  Gen- 
eral James  McDonald,  who,  true  fo  the  habit  of  his 
Highland  blood,  was  the  well-trusted  comrade  of 
thirty-odd  years,  and  one  of  the  executors  of  his  lit- 
erary remains.* 

*Tbe  following  extracts  from  the  article  referred  to  give  the 
-writer's  ideas  of  some  of  the  mental  and  social  characteristics  of 
Dr.  Bagby: 

"Dr.  Bagby  was  a  peculiar  man.  He  was  peculiar  in  the  tone 
and  temper  of  his  unclassified  order  of  genius  ;  he  was  peculiar  in 
ihe  ways  in  which  he  often  looked  at  things  with  his  mind's  eye ; 
he  was  peculiar  in  his  reflections,  in  his  reasonings,  in  his  specula- 
tions as  to  those  sublime  and  mystical  matters  that  come  within  the 


GEOKGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.          XXXV 

Long  time  as  death  was  known  to  be  approaching, 
its  final  access  was  a  surprise  at  last.  "  Death  will 
aiot  be  fooled,"  he  had  written  in  "Blue  Eyes:'  "  He 

spheres  of  both  physics  and  metaphysics.  His  intellect  was 
bright  and  sympathetic  and  subtle  ;  and  it  was  strong,  and  broad, 
and  deep  on  occasion  too.  He  was  admirable  as  an  analyst  in 
psychologic  science  and  speculative  philosophy.  His  mind  was 
not  symmetrically  disciplined,  perhaps,  but  in  certain  directions  it 
was  remarkably  clear,  strong  and  penetrating.  .  .  .  His  thoughts 
were  big  and  often  bold  upon  broad  fields  where  reason  paused 
and  beckoned  backward  for  genius  to  bring  her  lamp  and  light 
the  way  a  little. 

uDr.  Bagby  was  a  close  and  thoughtful  observer;  a  student  of 
humanity ;  a  somewhat  curious,  but  philosophic  and  charitable 
searcher  into  the  motives  by  which  men  are  governed  and  the 
secret  springs  that  actuate  them.  He  was  fond  of  grave  and  in- 
tellectual conversation,  and  took  pleasure  in  the  society  of  elderly 
persons,  whom  he  was  much  given  to  questioning  with  the  view 
of  drawing  out  their  experiences  of  life  and  their  conclusions  on 
its  puzzles  and  problems.  But  while  of  a  naturally  serious  and 
somewhat  melancholy  temperament,  which  tendency  was 
strengthened  by  habitual  ill-health,  he  often  entered  heartily  into 
social  diversions  and  convivialities,  and  played  his  full  part  in 
conversational  drolleries  and  interchanges  of  wit  and  repartee. 

"He  had  a  fine  appreciation  of  all  that  was  excellent  in  music 
.and  art,  in  acting  and  oratory,  and  he  delighted  in  the  advance- 
ments of  science,  invention  and  discovery.  He  was  very  ob- 
servant of  social  duties  and  courtesies,  punctual  in  correspondence, 
and  regular  in  visits  to  friends,  and  calls  on  those  who  had  any 
claim  to  such  civility.  He  treasured  and  was  careful  to  keep 
alive  old  friendships,  and  was  assiduous  in  little  acts  of  compli- 
ment and  kindness  in  which  children  often  shared.  He  was  with- 
•out  vanity  or  affectation,  and  without  jealousy,  as  man  or  author. 
He  was  a  genuine  lover  of  nature,  and  of  the  repose,  simplicity 
and  ingenuousness  of  country-life.  He  was  most  widely  known, 
•as  a  humorist  and  dialect  writer  ;  but  his  efforts  in  this  way,  irre- 
sistibly amusing  as  many  of  them  were,  were  only  the  unbend- 
ings  and  diversions  of  a  mind  that  found  its  brightest  pleasures 


XXXVI  GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY. 

will  have  his  dues.  Preparation  avails  nothing, 
Item  tetigit  acu.  Aye,  he  does  touch  sharply,  a& 
with  a  poisoned  thorn,  piercing  to  the  core.  When 
no  answer,  be  it  ever  so  faint  and  feeble,  comes  from 
the  lips  that  have  thanked  us ;  when  no  turning  of 
the  eye  repays  in  grateful  light  the  hands  that 
smooth  the  sunken  pillow ;  when  all  is  still  there,  and 
no  sound  shall  be  there  forever, — forever! — how 
burst  the  fountains,  how  the  waters  are  unsealed,  as 
though  never  a  thought  of  that  hour  of  anguish  had 
warned  us  of  its  coming."* 

His  end  was  great  peace;  his  last  word  "Rest;" 
his  death-pillow,  that  brave  and  tender  breast  where 
ten  babes  had  nestled,  and  where  his  own  woes  had 
been  softly  touched  into  mental  health,  and  his  sigh- 
ing soothed  into  sleep  or  song.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
who  die  in  the  Lord ;  to  whom  is  given  the  double 
promise  that  they  rest  while  their  labor  survives  to 
bless  and  decorate  the  world.  To  our  dear  dead,  the 
man  of  God,  Eev.  Dr.  Peterkin,  of  St.  James's  church, 
gave  all  the  final  consolations  and  ministrations  of 

and  its  normal  and  most  congenial  habitat  in  the  upper  realms  of 
thought. 

....  "It  was  his  great  ambition  to  write  a  book  that  would  be 
an  enduring  record  of  all  that  was  distinctive,  and,  as  he  be- 
lieved, without  parallel  elsewhere,  in  the  Virginia  civilization, 
character  and  life  which  he  had  known  in  his  earlier  days,  and 
which  culminated  in  the  war  and  perished  with  its  close.  He  did 
not  live  to  accomplish  the  desire  in  the  form  that  he  thought,  but 
he  was,  unconsciously  to  himself,  accomplishing  it  all  the  time, 
and  in  the  body  of  his  literary  remains,  could  they  be  collected,, 
the  purpose  would  be  found  fully  executed. '' 
*  Blue  Eyes  and  Battlewick,  Chapter  IV. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY.  XXXV11 

the  faith  of  Christ ;  and  his  works  shall  vindicate  the 
-conservative  aspect  of  justice  and  truth  while  the 
world  turns.  The  Virginia  of  the  future  may  be 
grander,  richer,  and  stronger  than  the  Virginia,  "  im- 
maculate and  immortal,"  which  his  love  and  imagina- 
tion touched  into  all  the  lines  and  colors  of  ideal 
perfection ;  but  it  cannot  ever  and  for  ever  be  the 
same  Virginia,  the  mother  and  nurse  in  classic  and 
Christian  greatness  of  Washingtons  and  Lees,  of  Stu- 
arts and  Rodeses,  and  of  children  humbler  in  birth 
and  state,  but  all  as  dutiful  and  dauntless.  What- 
ever there  was  that  was  brightest  and  sweetest  in  the 
older  civilization,  in  what  he  queerly  called  the  Vir- 
ginia of  the  "spring  and  gourd"  period,  whose  seedy 
relics  are  even  as  an  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  new 
generation  ;  whatever  is  truest  and  best  and  bravest 
that  survives  among  the  most  potent  factors  and 
kindliest  influences  of  the  Virginia  that  is  yet  to  be, 
will  owe  its  survival  and  its  vitality  to  the  labor  and 
love  of  one  to  whom — more  fitly  than  to  most — we 
may  apply  the  sad  consolation,  "  After  life's  fitful 
fever  he  sleeps  well." 


Returning  from  the  funeral  of  her  father,  Decem- 
ber 1st,  1883,  his  daughter  wrote  the  following  lines, 
than  which  no  fitter  language  could  serve  for  his 
^epitaph : 

"  Ah  1  pitying  Saviour,  guard  and  guide, 

Receive  into  thy  arms  again 
His  longing  spirit,  purified 

From  mortal  sin  by  mortal  painl" 


WRITINGS 


OF 


DR.  GEORGE  w.  BAGBY.' 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 


PREFACE. 

THIS  lecture  was  written  in  the  interest  of  the  Virginia  Histori- 
cal Society.  My  hope  was  that  its  delivery  throughout  the  State 
might  awaken  in  our  people  a  just  pride  in  their  Past,  which,  with 
all  its  faults,  has  had  no  equal  since  Greece  gave  to  the  world  that 
splendor  which  will  live  when  the  sun  dies.  That  pride  aroused, 
I  hoped  they  would,  by  small  individual  contributions,  revivify 
a  society  representing  the  history  of  the  oldest  and  greatest  of 
American  States. 

Doubtless  the  picture  here  drawn  of  Virginia  as  she  was  is 
idealized.  Purposely  so.  Not  for  a  moment  could  any  Virginian 
say  that  there  was  nothing  amiss  in  the  old  order.  Alas !  there 
is  much  amiss  in  every  structure,  old  or  new.  Educated  at  the 
North,  I  was  perhaps  more  keenly  alive  to  the  defects  of  our  sys- 
tem than  almost  any  Virginian  of  my  time.  And  so  long  as  the 
good  Commonwealth  lived  I  did  not  fail  to  mix  in  every  panegyric 
I  wrote — and  there  were  several — a  full  proportion  of  good-na- 
tured satire.  If  I  have  praised  Virginia  without  stint,  I  have,  in 
times  past,  ridiculed  her  unsparingly.  But  our  Mother  is  dead, 
and  much  may  be  pardoned  in  a  eulogy  which  would  be  inex- 
cusable were  the  subject  living.  I  ask  no  man's  pardon  for  what 
must  seem  to  a  stranger  a  most  exaggerated  estimate  of  my  State 
and  its  people.  In  simple  truth  and  beyond  question  there  was 
in  our  Virginia  country  life  a  beauty,  a  simplicitj7,  a  purity,  an 
uprightness,  a  cordial  and  lavish  hospitality,  warmth  and  grace 
which  shine  in  the  lens  of  memory  with  a  charm  that  passes  all 
language  at  my  command.  It  is  gone  with  the  social  structure 
that  gave  it  birth,  and  were  I  great,  I  would  embalm  it  in  the 
ainber  of  such  prose  and  verse  as  has  not  been  written  since  John 
Milton  laid  down  his  pen.  Only  greatness jjan  fitly  do  it. 
I 


33  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

The  lecture  is  in  fact  two  lectures.  With  the  words,  "  As  were 
the  sons,  so  was  the  mother,"  the  second  lecture  begins.  For 
this  lecture,  which  I  intended  to  call  simply  "  Old  Virginia,''  there 
was  in  my  mind,  years  ago,  ample  material,  but  the  thread  some- 
how became  lost,  and  fearing  that  I  might  not  live  to  recover  it, 
and  desiring,  too,  to  say  before  I  died  what  I  have  said  in  the 
closing  pages,  I  tacked  it  on  to  the  first  lecture,  without  much  re- 
gard to  the  unities.  So  let  it  pass. 

MARCH  19,  1877. 

HIS  house  was  not  jammed  down  within  two 
inches  and  a  half  of  "  the  main,  plain  road." 
Why  !  He  held,  as  his  father  did  before  him,  that 
it  was  immodest  to  expose  even  his  house  to  the  pub- 
lic gaze.  Perhaps  he  had  that  lack  of  curiosity,  which, 
the  newspaper  men  tell  us,  is  characteristic  of  the 
savage — most  of  us,  you  know,  are  descended  from 
Pocahontas — and,  at  all  events,  it  would  never  do  to 
have  his  headquarters  on  the  very  edge  of  a  planta- 
tion of  1,000  or  2,000  acres. 

What  was  there  to  see  on  the  main,  plain  road  ? 
Nothing.  Morning  and  evening  the  boys  dashed  by 
on  their  colts,  hurrying  to  or  from  the  Academy,  so- 
called.  On  Sundays,  carryalls,  buggies,  and  wagons, 
filled  with  women-folk  and  children,  in  split-bottom 
chairs,  wended  their  way  to  Mt.  Zion,  a  mile  or  two 
further  on  in  the  woods.  Twice  a  week  the  stage 
rattled  along,  nobody  inside,  a  negro  in  the  boot,  the 
driver  and  the  negro-trader,  both  drunk,  on  top. 
Once  a  month  the  lawyers,  in  their  stick-gigs  or 
"  single-chairs,"  and  the  farmers  on  their  plantation 
mares,  chatting  and  spitting  amicably,  with  switches 
poised  in  up-and-downy  elbows,  jogged  on  to  court. 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  3 

And  that  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen  on  the  main, 
plain  road,  except  the  Doctor  and  the  Deputy-sheriff, 
with  their  leggings  and  saddle-bags. 

Tramps  there  were  none,  unless  you  call  the  county 
idiot,  who  stalked  barefoot  through  the  winter  snow, 
fanning  himself  industriously  the  while  with  a  turkey- 
wing  fan,  a  tramp.  Once  a  year  the  peddler,  with 
his  pack,  or  the  plausible  oil-cloth  table-cloth  man, 
put  in  an  appearance ;  and  that  was  literally  all. 
Why,  even  the  hares  played  in  the  middle  of  the 
lonesome  road  !  And  yet  there  was  a  life  and  ani- 
mation along  the  county  roads,  especially  about  the 
country  taverns,  in  the  good  old  days  (they  were 
good)  which  we  who  remember  them  sadly  miss  in 
these  times  of  rapid  railroad  transit. 

A  stranger  would  never  dream  that  the  narrow 
turning  out  of  the  main  road,  scarcely  marked  by  a 
rut,  led  to  a  habitation  better  than  a  charcoal-burner's 
shed.  But  the  drivers  of  the  high-swung,  bug-back 
family  carriages  of  the  period  knew  that  turning 
"mighty  well."  So  did  many  gentlemen,  old  and 
young,  in  all  parts  of  the  Commonwealth.  "  Oak- 
lands,"  "  Belleh'eld,"  "  Mt.  Airy,"  whatever  it  might 
be  named,  was  the  half-way  house  to  "Cousin  Tom's," 
"  Uncle  Randolph's,"  or  "  Grandpa's,"  twenty  or 
thirty  miles  further  on.  Also  it  was  a  convenient 
place  to  spend  the  night  and  mend  the  high-swung 
bug-back  from  Alpha  to  Omega  when  on  your  way 
to  the  White  Sulphur,  Richmond,  or  anywhere. 
Truth  to  tell,  there  was  no  getting  around  it;  it 
drew  you  like  a  magnet. 


4  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

And  whenever  the  road  was  adorned  by  a  white- 
haired,  florid-faced  gentleman  astride  a  blooded  horse, 
with  his  body-servant  in  charge  of  his  portmanteau 
following  at  respectful  distance  behind,  that  party, 
you  may  be  very  sure,  turned  off  the  main  plain  road 
and  disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Col. 
Tidewater  had  come  half  the  length  of  the  State  to 
try  a  little  more  of  Judge  Piedmont's  Madeira,  to 
know  what  on  earth  induced  Piedmont  to  influence 
the  Governor  in  making  that  appointment,  and  to  in- 
quire if  it  were  possible  that  Piedmont  intended  to 
bring  out  Jimson — of  all  human  beings,  Jim  son  ! — 
for  Congress  ? 

"  Disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  ?"  Yes. 
And  why  ?  Because  there  must  be  plenty  of  wood 
where  there  is  no  end  of  negroes,  and  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles  of  worm-fencing  to  keep  in  repair.  So 
there  was  a  forest  on  this  side  ancl  on  that  of  the  Old 
Virginia  gentleman's  home ;  sometimes  on  all  sides  ; 
and  the  more  woodland  the  better.  How  is  a  man 
to  get  along  without  clearing  new  ground  every  year  ? 
The  boys  must  have  some  place  to  hunt  squirrels. 
Everybody  is  obliged  to  have  wild  indigo  to  keep 
flies  off  his  horse's  head  in  summer.  If  you  have  no 
timber,  what  becomes  of  your  hogs  when  you  turn 
them  out  ?  How  about  fuel  ?  "Where  is  your  plank 
to  come  from,  and  your  logs  for  new  cabins  and  to- 
bacco barns  ?  Are  you  going  to  buy  poles  for  this, 
that  and  the  other?  There's  no  use  'talking — ne- 
groes can't  be  healthy  without  wood,  nor  enjoy  life 
without  pine-knots  when  they  go  fishing  at  night. 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  5 

Pleasant  it  was  to  trot  through  these  forests  on  a 
hot  summer  day,  or  any  other  day,  knowing  what 
was  to  come  at  your  journey's  end.  Pleasant,  too, 
to  bowl  along  under  the  arching  boughs,  albeit  the 
ruts  were  terrible  in  places,  and  there  were  two  or 
three  immemorial  holes,  made  by  the  butts  of  saw- 
logs  (you  could  swear  that  the  great  mark  in  the 
centre  of  the  road  was  the  tail-trace  of  an  Iguanodon, 
or  some  other  Greek  beast  of  prehistoric  times) — 
two  or  three  old  holes,  that  made  every  vehicle,  but 
chiefly  the  bug-back  carriage,  lurch  and  careen  worse 
than  a  ship  in  a  heavy  sea. 

But  these  were  useful  holes.  They  educated  the 
young  negro  driver,  and  compelled  the  old  one  to 
keep  his  wrinkled,  mealy  hand  in.  They  toned,  or 
rather  tuned  up,  the  nerves  of  the  young  ladies,  and 
gave  them  excuse  for  uttering  the  prettiest  shrieks ; 
whereat  the  long-legged  cousin,  leaning  to  the  left 
at  an  angle  of  ninety  degrees,  with  his  abominable 
red  head  for  ever  inside  the  carriage  window,  would 
display  his  horsemanship  in  the  most  nimble,  over- 
affectionate,  and  unpleasing  manner — unpleasiug  to 
the  young  gentleman  from  the  city,  who  was  not  a 
cousin,  did  not  want  to  be  a  cousin,  wasn't  a  bit  proud 
of  riding,  but  had  "  some  sense  of  decency,  and  really 
a  very  high  regard  for  the  sensibilities  of  the  most 
refined  ladies  in  the  whole  State  of  Virginia,  sir !" 
Many  were  the  short  but  fervent  prayers  ejaculated 
by  the  old  ladies  in  consequence  of  these  same  holes, 
which  came  to  be  provocatives  of  late  piety,  and  on 
that  account  were  never  molested ;  and  they  were 


6  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

prized  beyond  measure  by  the  freckle-face  ten-year 
old  brother,  who,  standing  up  behind  and  hanging- 
back  by  the  carriage-straps,  yelled  with  delight  every 
time  the  bug-back  went  "  way  down,"  and  wished 
from  the  very  bottom  of  his  horrid  boy's  heart  that 
"  the  blamed  old  thing  would  bust  all  to  flinders  and 
plump  the  whole  caboodle  smack  into  the  middle  of 
the  mud  puddle." 

Col.  Tidewater  declared  that  Piedmont's  forest 
road  was  the  worst  in  the  world,  and  enough  to  bring 
in  jeopardy  soul  as  well  as  body  ;  to  which  Piedmont 
hotly  replied  that  a  five  mile  stretch  in  August 
through  the  sand  in  Tidewater's  county  was  eternity 
in  Hades  itself. 

The  forest  once  passed,  a  scene  not  of  enchant- 
ment, though  contrast  often  made  it  seem  so,  but  of 
exceeding  beauty,  met  the  eye.  Wide,  very  wide 
fields  of  waving  grain,  billowy  seas  of  green  or  gold, 
as  the  season  chanced  to  be,  over  which  the  scudding 
shadows  chased  and  played,  gladdened  the  heart  with 
wealth  far  spread.  Upon  lowlands  level  as  a  floor, 
the  plumed  and  tasseled  corn  stood  tall  and  dense, 
rank  behind  rank  in  military  alignment — a  serried 
army,  lush  and  strong.  The  rich,  dark  soil  of  the 
gently  swelling  knolls  could  scarcely  be  seen  under 
the  broad,  lapping  leaves  of  the  mottled  tobacco. 
The  hills  were  carpeted  with  clover.  Beneath  the 
tree-clumps,  fat  cattle  chewed  the  cud  or  peaceful 
sheep  reposed,  grateful  for  the  shade.  In  the  midst 
of  this  plenty,  half-hidden  in  foliage  over  which  the 
graceful  shafts  of  the  Lombard  poplar  towered,  with 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  7 

its  bounteous  garden  and  its  orchards  heavy  with 
fruit  near  at  hand,  peered  the  old  mansion,  white  or 
dusky-red  or  mellow-gray  by  the  storm  and  shine  of 
years. 

Seen  by  the  tired  horseman,  halting  at  the  wood- 
land's edge,  this  picture,  steeped  in  the  intense,  quiv- 
ering summer  noonlight,  filled  the  soul  with  un- 
speakable emotions  of  beauty,  tenderness,  peace, 
home. 

" — How  calm  could  we  rest 
In  that  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  we  love  best  !"• 

Sorrows  and  cares  were  there — where  do  they  not 
penetrate  ?  but  oh !  dear  God,  one  day  in  these  sweet 
tranquil  homes  outweighed  a  fevered  lifetime  in  the 
gayest  cities  of  the  globe.  Tell  me  nothing;  I  under- 
value naught  that  man's  heart  delights  in;  I  dearly 
love  operas  and  great  pageants;  but  I  do  know — as 
I  know  nothing  else — that  the  first  years  of  human 
life,  and  the  last,  yea,  if  it  be  possible,  all  the 
years,  should  be  passed  in  the  country.  The  towns 
may  do  for  a  day,  a  week,  a  month  at  most ;  but  na- 
ture, mother  nature,  pure  and  clean,  is  for  all  time ; 
yes,  for  eternity  itself.  What  think  you  of  heaven? 
Is  it  a  narrow  street,  packed  full  of  houses,  with  a 
theatre  at  one  end  and  a  beer  saloon  at  the  other? 
Nay !  the  city  of  God  is  under  the  trees  and  beside 
the  living  waters. 

These  homes  of  Virginia  are  ruins  now;  not  like 
the  ivied  walls  and  towers  of  European  lands,  but 
ruins  none  the  less.  The  houses,  indeed,  are  still 


8  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

there,  little  changed,  it  may  be,  as  to  the  outside ;  but 
the  light,  the  life,  the  charm  are  gone  for  ever. 
"The  soul  is  fled." 

About  these  Virginia  homes  there  was  much  that 
was  unlike  the  houses  I  have  seen  in  the  more  popu- 
lous States  of  the  North  and  in  Canada.  A  South- 
erner traveling  through  central  Pennsylvania  and 
western  New  York  to  the  falls  of  Niagara,  and 
thence  down  the  St.  Lawrence,  is  painfully  impressed 
by  the  scarcity — the  absence,  one  might  say — of  hu- 
man beings  around  the  houses  and  in  the  fields. 
There  are  no  children  playing  in  the  cramped-up 
yards.  The  few  laborers  in  the  narrow  fields  make 
but  a  pitiful  show,  even  at  harvest  time.  The  farms 
have  a  deserted  look,  that  is  most  depressing  to  one 
accustomed  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  Virginia 
country  life.  For  thirty  miles  below  Quebec  I 
watched  the  houses  that  thickly  line  the  verdant 
river  banks,  but  saw  no  human  being — not  one.  The 
men  were  at  work  in  the  villages,  the  women  were 
at  the  wash-tubs  or  in  the  kitchens;  and  as  for  the 
children,  I  know  not  where  they  were. 

How  unlike  Virginia  of  the  olden  time !  There, 
people  were  astir,  and  something  was  always  going 
on.  The  young  master,  with  his  troop  of  little  dar- 
kies, was  everywhere — in  the  yard,  playing  horses; 
in  the  fields,  hunting  larks  or  partridges;  in  the  or- 
chards, hunting  for  bird's  nests;  at  the  barn,  sliding 
down  the  straw  stacks;  in  the  woods,  twisting  or 
smoking  hares  out  of  hollow  trees ;  in  the  "  branch," 
fishing  or  bathing  (we  call  it  "  washing  "  in  Virginia); 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  9 

in  the  patch,  plugging  half-ripe  watermelons ;  or  else- 
where, in  some  fun  or  mischief.  "  Young  Mistiss," 
in  her  sun-bonnet,  had  her  retinue  of  sable  attend- 
ants, who,  bare-armed  and  bare-footed,  accompanied 
her  in  her  rambles  through  the  garden,  the  open 
woodland  near  the  house,  and  sometimes  as  far  as  the 
big  gate.  By  the  way,  whenever  you  heard  the  big 
gate  slam,  you  might  know  that  "comp'ny"  was 
coining.  And  comp'ny  was  always  coming — beaux  to 
see  the  grown-up  girls,  neighbors,  friends,  strangers, 
kinfolks — no  end  of  them.  Then  some  comely  negro 
woman,  with  bright  kerchief  on  her  head,  was  ever 
passing  to  and  fro,  on  business  with  her  mistress; 
and  few  days  passed  that  did  not  witness  the  "drop- 
shot  gang "  of  small  Ethiops  sweeping  up  the  fallen 
leaves  that  disfigured  the  broad  yard. 

Some  one  was  always  coming  or  going.  The  gig, 
the  double  buggy,  the  carryall,  the  carriage,  were  in 
constant  use.  Horses,  two  to  a  dozen,  were  seldom 
wanting  at  the  rack,  and  the  boy  of  the  family  was 
sure  to  be  on  the  horse-block,  begging  permission  to 
"ride  behind,"  or  to  carry  the  horse  to  the  stable. 
Bringing  in  breakfast,  dinner  and  supper,  and  carry- 
ing the  things  back  to  the  kitchen,  kept  three  or  four 
servants  busy  from  dawn  till  long  after  dark.  The 
mistress  had  a  large  provision  store  at  the  smoke- 
house, where  there  was  much  to  do  every  day  except 
Sunday.  So,  too,  with  the  dairy.  From  the  rooms 
set  apart  for  weaving  and  spinning  came  the  tireless 
droning  of  wheels  and  the  clatter  of  looms — wonder- 
ful machines,  that  delighted  the  knots  of  white  and 


10  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

black  children  gathered  at  the  open  doorways.  How 
gracefully  Aunt  Sooky  stepped  back  and  forth  with 
her  thread,  as  it  kept  growing  and  lengthening  on 
the  spindle !  Why,  I  can  smell  the  wool-rools  now, 
and  see  the  brooches,  and  the  shucks  on  which  they 
were  wound! 

These  were  the  scenes  and  occupations  that  gave 
life  to  the  house.  In  the  fields,  from  the  time  that 
the  gangs  of  ploughers  (we  never  called  them  plough- 
men), moving  steadily  en  echelon,  turned  up  the  rich 
sod,  until  the  wheat  was  shocked,  the  corn  laid  by, 
the  tobacco  planted,  suckered,  primed,  topped,  cut, 
and  hung  in  the  golden  sunshine  to  cure,  there  was 
something  perpetually  afoot  to  enliven  the  planta- 
tion. But  who  shall  tell  of  harvest- time,  when  the 
field  fairly  swarmed  with  cutters,  the  binders,  the 
shockers,  the  gleaners,  all  agog  with  excitement  and 
joy?  A  murrain  on  your  modern  reapers  and  mow- 
ers !  What  care  I  if  Cyrus  McCormick  was  born  in 
E-ockbridge  county  ?  These  new-fangled  "  contrap- 
tions" are  to  the  old  system  what  the  little,  dirty, 
black  steam-tug  is  to  the  three-decker,  with  its  cloud 
of  snowy  canvass  towering  to  the  skies — the  grand- 
est and  most  beaiutiful  sight  in  the  world.  I  wouldn't 
give  Uncle  Isham's  picked  man,  "  long  Billy  Carter," 
leading  the  field,  with  one  good  drink  of  whiskey  in 
him — I  wouldn't  give  one  swing  of  his  cradle  and 
one  "ketch"  of  his  straw  for  all  the  mowers  and 
reapers  in  creation. 

But  what  was  the  harvest-field  compared  to  thresh- 
ing-time at  the  barn  ?  Great  goodness  alive  !  Do 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  11 

you  all  remember  that  huge  cog-wheel  aloft,  and  the 
little  cog-wheels,  that  big  post  that  turned  'round,, 
the  thick  shafts, — two  horses  to  a  shaft;  eight  or  ten 
horses  to  a  machine — (none  of  your  one-horse,  out- 
o'-door  concerns — this  was  under  a  large  shed,  close 
to  the  barn),  and  how  we  sat  on  those  shafts,  and  how 
we  drove  those  horses,  and  hollered  at  'em,  and  how 
the  dust  flew,  and  what  a  glorious,  glorious  racket,, 
hubbub  and  confusion  there  was  ?  Surely  you  do. 

Then  came  beating-cider  time.  Bless  me!  how 
sick  "us  boys"  used  to  get  from  drinking  sweet  ci- 
der and  eating  apple  "  pommels !"  You  recollect  the 
cider  press?  None  of  your  fish-traps,  cut  in  two,, 
and  set  on  end,  with  an  iron  crank,  but  a  good,  hon- 
est beam,  a  foot  and  a  half  thick,  and  fifteen  to 
twenty  feet  long,  jobbed  into  a  hole  cut  clean  through 
a  stout  oak  tree,  with  a  wooden  trough  holding  half 
a  ton  of  rocks,  and  an  affair  with  holes  and  pegs,  to 
regulate  the  prizing.  Now  that  was  a  press,  a  real 
press — not  a  gimcrack.  Don't  ask  me  about  corn- 
shuckings.  It  would  take  a  separate  lecture  to  de- 
scribe them;  besides,  you  already  know  more  about 
them  than  I  can  tell  you. 

If  the  house,  the  barn,  the  fields  were  alive,  so 
also  were  the  woods.  There  the  ax  was  ever  plying. 
Timber  to  cut  for  cabins  (the  negroes  increased  so 
fast),  for  tobacco  houses  and  for  fuel,  new  ground  to- 
clear,  etc  ,  etc.  The  crack  of  the  gun  was  heard  con- 
tinually— the  boys  were  shooting  squirrels  for  Bruns- 
wick stew — and  when  the  wild  pigeons  came,  there 
was  an  endless  f usilade.  As  for  sports,  besides  squir- 


12  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

rels,  'coons  and  'possums,  there  were  partridges,  rob- 
ins, larks,  and  even  kildees  and  bull-bats  for  shooting ; 
but  far  above  all  these,  was  the  fox-hunt.  Ah!  who 
can  ever  forget  it  ?  When  the  chase  swept  through 
the  forest  and  across  the  hills,  the  hounds  and  the 
beagles  in  full,  eager,  piercing,  passionate  cry,  mak- 
ing music  for  the  very  gods  and  driving  the  hunts- 
men stark  mad.  What  were  staked  and  ridered 
fences,  tangled  underwood,  gullies,  ditches,  banks  that 
were  almost  precipices,  what  was  life,  what  was  death 
to  the  young  fellow  just  out  of  college,  that  glorious 
music  ringing  in  his  ears,  his  horse,  a  thing  all  fire 
and  steel,  going  under  him  like  a  thunderbolt,  and 
the  fox  not  five  hundred  yards  away?  Tell  me 
Southern  country  life  was  monotonous !  Bah ! 

Why,  something  or  somebody  was  forever  stirring. 
In  the  dead  of  night,  hours  before  day-break,  some 
old  negro  was  eternally  getting  up  to  chunk  his  fire, 
or  to  cut  another  stick  or  two.  In  the  dead  of  win- 
ter, the  wagons  were  busy  hauling  wood,  to  keep  up 
the  grand  old  fires  in  the  big  old  fire-places.  And 
at  the  worst,  the  boys  could  always  jump  a  hare  out 
of  a  briar-patch,  and  then  such  "hollering,"  such 
whistling,  such  whooping,  such  calling  of  dogs: — 
"here,  here,  here!  who-eet!  whoop!  here!"  as  if 
Bedlam  had  broke  loose. 

Of  church-going  on  Sunday,  when  the  girls  kept 
the  carriage  waiting;  of  warraiit-tryings,  vendues, 
election  and  general  muster  days,  of  parties  of  all 
kinds,  from  candy-stews  and  "infairs"  up  to  the  reg- 
ular country  balls  at  the  county  seat,  of  fun  at  negro 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

weddings,  of  fish-fries,  barbecues,  sailing-parties,  sora 
and  duck-shooting,  rides  and  drives — the  delights  of 
Tidewater  life — of  dinings  in  and  dinings  out,  of  the 
Bishop's  visit,  of  company  come  for  all  day  in  addi- 
tion to  the  company  regularly  domiciled  for  the  week, 
month  or  half-year,  I  need  not  speak  at  length. 
Country  life  in  Yirginia  tiresome'!  You  are 
crazy ! 

The  habitation  of  the  old  Yirginia  gentleman — 
house  is  too  short  a  word  to  express  it — always  large 
enough,  however  small  it  might  be,  was  sometimes 
stately,  like  the  great,  square  house  of  "  Rosewell," 
and  others  I  might  name.  As  a  rule,  to  which,  in- 
deed, there  were  many  exceptions,  it  was  neither 
planned  nor  built — it  grew :  and  that  was  its  great 
charm.  To  be  sure,  the  main  structure  or  body  of 
it  had  been  put  up  with  an  eye  not  to  convenience 
but  to  elbow-room  and  breathing  space — without 
which  no  Yirginian  can  live.  But  in  course  of  time, 
as  the  children  came  along,  as  the  family  connexions 
increased,  and  as  the  desire,  the  necessity  in  fact,  of 
keeping  a  free  hotel  grew  upon  him,  the  old  gentle- 
man kept  adding  a  wing  here  and  tacking  a  shed  room 
there  until  the  original  building  became  mixed  up, 
and,  as  it  were,  lost  in  the  crowd  of  additions.  In 
cold  weather  the  old  house  was  often  miserably  un- 
comfortable, but  at  all  other  times  it  was  simply  glo- 
rious. There  was,  of  course,  a  large  hall  or  passage, 
a  parlor  and  dining-room,  "  the  chamber  "  proper  for 
the  old  lady  and  for  everybody,  and  a  fine  old-time 
staircase  leading  to  the  guest-chambers,  but  the  rest 


14  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

of  the  house  ran  mostly  into  nondescript  apartments, 
access  to  which  was  not  always  easy.  For  the  floors 
were  on  different  levels,  as  they  ought  to  be  in  an 
old  country-house.  Fail  to  step  up  or  down  at  the 
proper  time,  and  you  were  sure  to  bump  your  head 
or  bruise  your  shins.  Then  there  were  dark  closets, 
cuddies,  and  big  old  chests  that  came  mayhap  from 
England,  say  nothing  of  the  garret,  full  of  mystery, 
that  stretched  the  whole  length  of  the  house.  Here 
was  romance  for  childhood — plenty  of  it.  These  ir- 
regular rooms,  two  steps  up  and  three  down  before 
you  got  fairly  into  them,  teemed  with  poetry ;  but 
your  modern  houses,  with  square  rooms  all  on  a  dead 
level,  are  prosaic  as  dry-goods  boxes. 

A  fine  old  house  it  was  to  play  hide-and-seek  in,  to 
romp  with  the  girls,  to  cut  all  sorts  of  capers  with- 
out disturbing  the  old  folks.  Then  these  dark  pas- 
sages, these  cuddies  and  closets,  that  big  garret,  never 
failed  to  harbor  some  good-natured  old  hip-shot  fool 
of  a  family  ghost,  who  was  everlastingly  "  projicking  " 
around  at  night,  after  the  girls  had  quit  their  talk, 
making  the  floors  crack,  the  doors  creak,  and  whisper- 
ing his  nonsense  through  the  keyhole,  as  if  he  could 
scare  you  or  anybody  else !  To  modernize  the  old 
Virginian's  house  would  kill  .that  ghost,  and  if  it  be 
a  crime  to  kill  a  live  man,  what  an  enormity  it  must 
be  to  kill  one  who  has  been  dead  a  hundred  years, 
who  never  harmed  a  living  soul,  and  who,  I  suspect, 
wras  more  fretted  than  sorry  when  the  young  ones 
would  persist  in  hiding  their  heads  under  the  bed- 
clothes for  fear  of  him?  "You  little  geese!  its  no- 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  15 

body  but  me,"  and  "  whisk,  whish,  whish,"  he  would 
go  on  with  his  idiotic  whispering. 

The  heavy,  dark  furniture ;  the  huge  sideboard ; 
the  quaint  solid  chairs;  the  more  common  article, 
with  spraddled  legs,  scooped  seats  and  stick  backs; 
the  diamond-paned  book-case ;  the  long  horse-hair 
;sofas,  with  round  tasseled  pillows,  hard  as  logs  of 
ebony,  with  nooks  to  hide  them  in;  the  graceful 
-candle-stand ;  the  gilt  mirror,  with  its  three  compart- 
ments; the  carved  mantle,  so  high  you  could  hardly 
reach  the  silver  candlesticks  on  its  narrow  top;  the 
bureaux,  with  swinging  brass  handles;  the  dressing 
tables;  the  high-post  bedstead,  with  valence  and 
teaster;  the 

But  stay  !  it  suddenly  and  painfully  occurs  to  me — 
there  are  grown-up  men  and  women  in  this  room, 
actually  here,  immortal  beings,  who  never  laid  eyes 
on  a  bed-wrench  and  pin,  and  who  do  not  so  much 
as  know  the  meaning  of  cording  a  bed !  Think  of 
it !  Yet  these  people  live  on.  Ah  me  !  the  fashion 
of  this  world  passeth  away ! 

The  massive  dinner  table,  never  big  enough  to  hold 
all  the  dishes,  some  of  which  had  to  go  on  the  hearth 
to  be  kept  warm;  the  old  time  silver,  the  heavy  cut 
glassware,  the  glass  pitcher  for  the  thick,  rich  milk — 
how  it  foamed,  when  they  "poured  it  high!"  the 
Canton  >ehina,  thin  as  thin  biscuit;  the  plainer  blue 
dinner  set,  for  every  day  use,  with  the  big  apples  on 
the  little  trees,  the  blue  islands  in  a  white  sea,  the 
man  or  woman  that  was  always  going  over  that  short 
bridge,  but  stopped  and  stood  provokingly  in  the 


16  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

middle — how  they  all  come  back  to  you!  But  I 
"  lay  "  you  have  forgotten  the  band-boxes.  Think  of 
that  again !  Band-boxes  have  fled  away  from  the 
face  of  this  earth,  but  not  to  heaven ;  for  they  were 
much  uglier  than  any  sin  I'm  acquainted  with.  I 
recall  the  very  pattern  of  them — the  red  brick  houses,, 
with  many  windows,  the  clumsy  trees,  and  that  odd 
something,  more  like  a  pile  of  rocks  than  an  elephant, 
but  spouting  clods  of  water,  like  an  elephant  who  had 
got  drunk  on  mud. 

When  you  were  a  boy,  did  you  sleep  in  a  low- 
pitched,  dormer-windowed  room,  with  two  little 
gable  windows  that  looked  out  upon  a  narrow-necked 
chimney,  just  where  the  neck  ended  and  the  shoulder 
began?  You  did'nt?  Then  I  pity  you;  you  must 
have  had  a  mighty  poor  sort  of  boyhood.  Why,  I 
can  see  the  moss  growing  on  that  chimney,  can  see 
how  very  thick  the  old  thing  is  at  the  bottom,  and, 
by  George !  there  is  the  identical  old  toad  (frog,  we 
call  him)  that  pops  out  every  night  from  the  slit  in 
the  wall  at  the  side  of  the  chimney.  How  well  he 
looks !  hasn't  changed  a  hair  in  forty  years !  Come  ! 
let's  "ketch"  some  lightning-bugs  and  feed  him, 
right  now. 

Surely,  you  hav'nt  forgotten  the  rainy  days  at  the 
old  country  house  ?  How  the  drops  kept  dropping, 
dropping  from  the  eaves,  and  popping,  popping  up 
from  the  little  trough  worn  into  the  earth  below  the 
eaves ;  how  draggled  and  miserable  the  rooster  looked, 
as  you  watched  him  from  your  seat  in  the  deep  win- 
dow-sill; and  how  (tired  of  playing  in-doors)  you 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  17 

wondered  if  it  would  never,  never  stop  raining. 
How  you  wandered  from  room  to  room,  all  over  the 
bouse,  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  eating  cakes  and 
apples,  or  buttered  bread  and  raspberry  jam ;  bow  at 
last  you  settled  down  in  the  old  lady's  chamber  and 
held  a  hank  till  your  arms  ached,  and  you  longed  for 
bed-time  to  corne.  If  you  have  never  known  such 
days,  never  seen  the  reel  the  hanks  were  placed  on, 
nor  the  flax-wheels  that  clacked  when  the  time  came 
to  stop  winding,  then  you  have  neither  seen  nor 
known  anything.  You  don't  know  how  to  "skin 
the  cat,"  or  to  play  " Ant'ny  over ;"  you  don't  know 
how  to  drop  a  live  'coal  in  a  little  puddle  of  water, 
and  explode  it  with  an  axe ;  you  "  don't  know  no- 
thiii'," — you  have  never  been  a  Virginia  boy. 

Yes,  your  arms  ached,  poor  little  fellow,  pining  for 
out-door  fun ;  they  were  sure  to  ache  if  you  held  the 
hank  for  Miss  Mehaly  Sidebottom,  the  poor  lady 
who  had  lived  in  the  family  time  out  o'  mind  ;  but 
if  you  held  it  for  a  pretty  girl — and  what  Virginia 
gentleman's  house  was  without  one — two — three — 
half  a  dozen  of  them  ? — then  your  arms  didn't  give 
out  half  so  soon,  and  you  didn't  know  what  it  was  to 
get  hungry  or  sleepy.  When  you  grew  older,  a 
rainy  day  in  the  country  was  worth  untold  money,  for 
then  you  had  the  pretty  girl  all  to  yourself  the  live- 
long day  in  the  drawing  room.  What  music  the 
rain  made  on  the  roof  at  night,  and  how  you  wished 
the  long  season  in  May  would  set  in,  raise  all  the 
creeks  past  fording,  wash  away  all  the  bridges,  and 
keep  you  there  for  ever. 
2 


18  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

And  such  girls !  They  were  of  a  piece  with  the  dear 
old  house ;  they  belonged  to  it  of  right,  and  it  would 
not,  and  it  could  not  have  been  what  it  was  without 
them.  Finer  women,  physically,  I  may  have  seen, 
with  much  more  bone,  a  deal  more  of  muscle  and 
redder  cheeks ;  but  more  grace,  more  elegance,  more 
refinement,  more  guileless  purity,  were  never  found 
the  whole  world  over,  in  any  age,  not  even  that  of 
the  halcyon.  There  was  about  these  country  girls — 
I  mean  no  disparagement  of  their  city  sisters,  for 
all  Virginia  girls  were  city  girls  in  winter  and  coun- 
try girls  in  summer,  so  happy  was  our  peculiar  social 
.system — there  was  about  these  country  girls  I  know 
not  what  of  sauce — the  word  is  a  little  too  strong — 
of  mischief,  of  spirit,  of  fire,  of  archness,  coquetry, 
and  bright  winsomeness — tendrils  these  of  a  stock 
that  was  strong  and  true  as  heart  could  wish  or 
nature  frame ;  for  in  essentials  their  character  was 
based  upon  a  confiding,  trusting,  loving  unselfish  de- 
votion— a  complete,  immaculate  world  of  womanly 
virtue  and  home  piety  was  theirs,  the  like  of  which, 
I  boldly  claim,  was  seldom  approached,  and  never  ex- 
celled, since  the  Almighty  made  man  in  his  own  image. 

What  matter  if  it  rained  or  shone,  so  you  spent 
your  time  with  girls  like  these  ?  And  if  one  of  them 
chanced  to  be  a  cousin — everybody  has  cousins — 
then  there  was  no  help  for  you ;  literally  none, — 

"  Did  you  ever  have  a  cousin,  Tom  ? 

And  did  that  cousin  sing  ? 
Sisters  we've  had  by  the  dozen,  Tom, — 
But  a  cousin's  a  different  thing  !  " 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  19 

I  believe  you.  A  cousin,  a  real  female  cousin,  I 
take  to  be  the  invention  of  the  De'il  himself — his 
pet  bit  of  ingenuity.  She  makes  you  all  but  crazy 
to  marry  her,  then  she  won't  marry  you,  never  had 
the  remotest  idea  of  marrying  you  (says  so  anyhow), 
and  you  know  you  oughtn't  to  marry  her  even  if  she 
were  willing;  and — where  are  you?  There's  not  a 
man  of  us  who  has  not  been  robbed  of  his  senses  by 
one  or  more  of  these  beautiful  witches,  not  one  of 
us  who  does  not  recall  the  time  when 

"Half  dying  with  love, 
We  ate  up  her  glove 
And  drank  our  champagne  from  her  shoe!" 

And  a  little  "  teenchy "  bit  of  a  shoe  it  was,  too — 
white  kid.  She  never  knew  who  stole  it,  and  you 
have  had  it  hid  away  these  twenty  years,  although 
you  are  married.  I  know  you,  sir. 

Are  there  any  such  girls  now-a-days,  I  wonder  ?  I 
trust  so,  indeed.  The  archness  and  coquetry  in  the 
girls  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking  were  but  charm- 
ing arabesques  upon  Damascus  steel,  metal  of  proof, 
whose  mortal  sharpness,  bitter  and  keen,  he  was  sure 
to  feel,  and  quickly  too,  who  dared  to  come  too  near. 
But  since  the  war,  I  am  told,  a  change  has  come  to 
pass,  and  approaches,  impossible  in1  purer  days,  are 
allowed.  Is  it  so?  Then  are  we  lost  indeed!  It 
cannot  be  so ;  but  if  it  be  so  in  part  only,  who  is  to 
blame  ?  Are  not  you,  young  gentleman  ?  Hold  off, 
sir ;  stand  back,  I  say ;  lay  not  so  much  as  a  finger- 
tip lightly  upon  her,  for  she  is  sacred.  If  she  be  not 
yours,  she  is  your  brother's ;  and  if  your  own,  will 


20  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

you  harm  ever  so  little  her  whom  yon  intend  to  make 
your  wife  ?  Oh !  wait,  do  but  wait.  In  the  hallowed 
stillness  of  your  bridal  eve,  ere  the  guests  have  all 
assembled,  lift  up  to  yours  the  fair  pale  face,  love's 
perfect  image,  and  you  shall  see  that  vision  to  which 
God  our  Father  vouchsafes  no  equal  this  side  the 
jasper  throne — you  shall  see  the  ineffable  eyes  of  in- 
nocence entrusting  to  you,  unworthy,  oh !  so  un- 
worthy, her  destiny  through  time  and  eternity.  In- 
hale the  perfume  of  her  breath  and  hair,  that  puts 
the  violets  of  the  wood  to  shame;  press  your  first 
kiss  (for  now  she  is  all  your  own),  your  first  kiss 
upon  the  trembling  petals  of  her  lips,  and  you  shall 
hear,  with  ears  you  knew  not  that  you  had,  the  silver 
chiming  of  your  wedding  bells  far,  far  up  in  heaven. 

As  were  the  girls,  so  was  their  mother;  only  of  a 
type,  if  possible,  still  higher;  for  I  can  but  think 
that,  since  the  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  days,  each 
generation  has  shown  a  slight  falling  away  from 
those  grand  models  of  men  and  women  who  really 
existed  in  Virginia,  but  whom  we  have  come  to  look 
upon  almost  as  myths.  That  the  mother  was  lovelier 
or  more  lovable  than  her  daughters,  I  will  not  say. 
That  she  was  purer,  tenderer,  truer,  sweeter,  I  will 
not  say ;  but  certainly  there  was  about  her  a  dignity, 
a  repose,  an  impressiveness,— at  all  events,  a  some- 
thing that  one  missed  in  the  beautiful  maidens  who 
grew  up  around  her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  effect  of 
age.  I  know  not;  but  I  do  know  that,  in  some  re- 
spects, her  daughters  were  not  quite  equal  to  her. 

Words  fail  to  tell  what  the  Virginia  lady  of  the 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  21 

best  type  was.  During  the  first  decade  of  her  mar- 
ried life,  a  part  of  each  recurring  winter  was  passed 
at  the  State  capital  or  in  Washington,  and  a  part  of 
each  summer  at  the  springs;  she  was  at  that  time  no 
stranger  to  the  great  cities  and  seasides  of  the  North ; 
and,  in  some  instances  (though  these,  to  speak  the 
truth,  were  very  rare),  she  had  travelled  abroad,  and 
knew  the  delights  of  European  capitals.  But  now, 
for  many  years,  her  whole  life  had  been  spent  at 
home.  She  was  much  too  busy  to  leave  it.  The 
bodily  and  spiritual  welfare  of  too  many  human 
beings  depended  upon  her  gentle  presence,  her  bene- 
ficent guidance,  to  permit  more  than  the  briefest 
visit,  once  a  year,  to  her  aged  parents.  Retaining 
the  grace,  and,  to  some  extent,  the  ease  of  mariner, 
characteristic  of  her  class  and  peculiarly  her  own  in 
early  womanhood,  whilst  moving  in  the  brilliant 
throngs  of  cities  and  watering  places,  and  accustomed, 
as  she  had  ever  been,  to  receive  and  entertain  the 
best  people  of  her  own  and  other  States,  there  had 
nevertheless  crept  over  her,  in  consequence,  no  doubt, 
of  her  long  seclusion,  an  almost  girlish  shyness,  a 
maidenly  timidity,  a  little  uncertainty  as  to  herself, 
an  absence  of  readiness  and  aplomb^  which  were  in- 
expressibly beautiful.  The  ways  of  the  great  world 
had  ceased,  long  ago,  to  be  her  ways.  She  lived  in 
a  little  world  of  her  own.  She  cared  not  to  keep 
pace  with  the  fast-changing  fashions,  which,  to  her 
pure  mind,  were  not  always  for  the  better.  Her 
manner  was  not,  in  the  usual  sense,  high-bred ;  for 
her's  was  the  highest  breeding,  and  she  had  no  man- 


22  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

C^C   cttTi 

ner.  But  her  welcome  as  you  entered  her  door,  and 
her  greeting,  meet  her  when  you  might,  on  the  end- 
less round  of  her  duties,  in-doors  or  out,  was  as  sim- 
ple and  genial  as  sunshine,  and  as  sweet  as  spring 
water.  Full  well  she  knew  the  seriousness  of  life. 
Over  and  over  the  cares  and  responsibilities  of  her 
station,  as  the  mother  of  so  many  children,  the  mis- 
tress of  so  many  servants,  and  the  hostess  of  so  many 
guests,  had  utterly  overwhelmed  her.  Again  and 
again,  had  she  been  willing,  nay  glad — were  it  God's 
pleasure — to  lay  down  the  burthen  that  was  too 
heavy  for  poor  human  nature  to  bear.  To  her  own 
sorrows  she  added  the  sorrows  of  her  friends,  her 
neighbors,  her  dependents.  Into  how  many  negro 
cabins  had  she  not  gone,  when  the  night  was  far 
spent  and  the  lamp  of  life  nickered  low  in  the 
breast  of  the  dying  slave !  How  often  she  minis- 
.tered  to  him  with  her  own  hands!  Thin  hands, 
wasted  with  over-work — for  she  disdained  no  labor, 
manual  or  mental — I  can  see  them  now !  Nay,  had 
she  not  knelt  by  his  lowly  bed  and  poured  out  her 
heart  to  God  as.  his  soul  winged  its  flight,  and  closed 
his  glazed  and  staring  eyes  as  the  day  was  dawning  ? 
yet  the  morning  meal  found  her  at  her  accustomed 
seat,  tranquil  and  helpful,  and  no  one  but  her  hus- 
band the  wiser  for  her  night's  ministrations.  What 
poor  woman  for  miles  around  knew  not  the  bright- 
ness of  her  coming  ?  Some  of  her  own  children  had 
been  taken  from  her — that  deep  anguish  !  she  knew 
it  all — and  the  children  of  her  neighbors,  even  the 
humblest,  had  died  in  her  lap ;  herself  had  washed 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  23 

and  shrouded  them.  To  feed,  to  clothe,  to  teaph,  to 
guide,  to  comfort,  to  nurse,  to  provide  for  and  to 
watch  over  a  great  household  and  keep  its  complex 
machinery  in  noiseless  order — these  were  the  wo- 
man's rights  which  she  asserted,  and  there  was  no 
one  to  dispute;  this  was  her  mission,  and  none  ever 
dared  to  question  it.  Mother,  mistress,  instructor  > 
counsellor,  benefactress,  friend,  angel  of  the  sick- 
room !  if  ever  I  am  tempted  to  call  down  the  fire  of 
divine  wrath,  it  is  upon  the  head  of  those  (there 
have  been  such,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,)  who 
have  wilfully  and  persistently  misrepresented  thi& 
best  and  purest  of  God's  creatures  as  the  luxurious,, 
idle,  cruel  and  tyrannical  favorite  of  some  Eastern 
harem.  The  arch-fiend  himself  could  not  have 
originated  a  slander  more  gross,  more  infinitely  and 
detestably  foul. 

My  rambles  before  the  war  made  me  the  guest  of 
Virginians  of  all  grades.  Brightest  by  far  of  the 
memories  of  those  days,  that  seem  to  have  been 
passed  in  some  other  planet,  is  that  of  the  Virginia 
mother,  as  I  have  so  often  seen  her,  in  the  midst  of 
her  tall  sons  and  blooming  daughters.  Her  delicacy, 
tenderness,  freshness,  gentleness ;  the  absolute  purity 
of  her  life  and  thought,  typified  in  the  spotless  neat- 
ness of  her  apparel  and  her  every  surrounding,  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  convey.  Withal,  there  was  about 
her  a  naivete  mingled  with  sadness,  that  gave  her  a 
surpassing  charm.  Her  light  blush,  easily  called  up 
when  her  children  rallied  her,  as  they  habitually 
would,  about  her  old-fashioned  ways  and  her  igno- 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

ranee  of  the  world,  was  something  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. Sunlight,  flushing  with  faint  rose-tints  the 
driven  snow,  could  scarcely  more  excite  the  rapture 
of  admiration.  Her  pride  in  her  sons,  her  delight 
in  her  daughters,  her  lowliness  and  her  humility — 
for  she  was  least  among  them  all,  and  they  were  as 
yet  too  young  and  full  of  bounding  life  to  revere  and 
worship  her  as  she  deserved — who  shall,  who  can 
fitly  tell  of  these  things  ? 

When  I  think  of  the  days  that  will  come  no  more, 
I  sometimes  pass  my  hand  quickly  across  my  eyes, 
as  one  who  wishes  to  brush  away  a  vision,  not  be- 
cause it  is  unpleasing,  but  simply  because  it  is  un- 
real. And  in  the  solitude  of  my  room  I  sometimes 
ask  myself  aloud,  u  Was  this  actually  so  ?  Did  I 
live  in  those  days  ?  Isn't  it  a  dream  ?  Did  I  ever 
know  such  women  ?  Is  there  not  some  mirage,  some 
rosy  but  false  light  thrown  upon  the  picture  as  it 
appears  in  memory  ?  It  is  very,  very  beautiful ;  but 
is  it  not  of  the  fancy  merely  ?" 

No !  blessed  be  the  Giver  of  every  good  and  per- 
fect gift,  the  picture  is  not  imaginary.  It  is  real. 
These  women  lived.  The  most  of  us  who  are  bearded 
men  have  seen  them  and  talked  with  them;  and 
some  of  you  (alas !  I  am  not  of  your  number)  re- 
member with  trembling  and  with  tears,  that,  long, 
long  years  ago,  by  the  embers  and  low-flames  flutter- 
ing in  the  nursery  fire-place,  you  knelt  at  the  feet 
of  such  a  woman,  and  while  her  soft  hand  rested  on 
your  head,  said  the  little  prayer  her  pure  lips  had 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  25 

taught  you  to  pray.  You  called  her  mother.  She 
was  your  mother. 

How  did  these  Virginia  mothers  and  housekeepers 
manage  to  put  things  in  order  and  keep  them  so  ex- 
quisitely clean?  That  was  always  a  mystery  to  me. 
"Servants,"  you  say.  Oh  !  yes  !  servants  of  course  ; 
but  when  servants  have  so  many  things  to  do,  how 
is  it  that  you  never  see  them  doing  any  one  of  them  ? 
If  you  laid  awake  all  night  long,  you  would,  in  some 
vague  daybreak  hour,  hear  a  peculiar  humping, 
rumbling  noise,  never  heard  north  of  the  Susque- 
hanna,  which  was  occasioned,  I  am  told,  by  a  per- 
formance called  "  dry-rubbing."  A  grey-beard  Vir- 
ginia boy  told  me  only  yesterday  that  riding  on  the 
scrubbing-brush,  by  squatting  astraddle  the  brush 
and  holding  on  to  the  long  handle,  was  the  best  sort 
of  fun.  But  by  the  time  you  got  down  stairs,  nobody 
was  to  be  seen,  the  floors  were  so  slick  that  your 
neck  was  in  danger,  the  silver  candlestick,  snuffers 
and  tray  were  spotless,  so  were  the  big  brass  and- 
irons, so  was  the  brass  fender,  and  as  for  the  door- 
knobs, why,  you  could  see  your  face  in  them  any- 
time; and  a  comical,  big-mouthed,  narrow-fore- 
headed  face  it  was,  as  every  Virginia  boy  knows. 
Who  did  it  ?  When  ?  how  ?  what  for  ?  I  don't 
like  things  so  terrifically  clean — do  you  ?  One 
morning  I  did  catch  a  girl  coming  out  of  the  parlor 
with  a  bucket  in  her  hand.  She  trembled  like  a 
guilty  thing  surprised,  turned  a  little  yellow,  then 
blushed  a  reddish  black,  "  curche'd,"  and  said: 

"I  jes'  bin  clayin'  de  h'ath,  sir." 


26  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

What  pleasure,  what  joy  indeed,  it  was  to  visit 
a  house  over  which  one  of  these  dear  Virginia  ladies- 
presided  !     But  what  time  of  year  was  the  best  for 
your  visit?     Mortal  man  could  never  tell.     There 
was  the  summer  time,  when  you  died  daily  of  a 
surfeit   of    peaches    and    cream,    and   watermelons, 
tingling  cold  from  the  ice-house,  all  on  top  of  your 
regular  dinner;  and  somehow  you  never  felt  well 
enough  to  go  bat-shooting  with  the  boys  about  sun- 
down, but  did  gather  up  strength  enough  to  walk 
out  with  one  of  the  girls,  "it  didn't  matter  which 
one,"  you  said,  and  told  a  whopper  when  you  said  so. 
When  night  came,  and  the  girls  with  their  beaux 
were  in  the  parlor,  and  the  old  gentleman  was  talk- 
ing politics  with  his  friends  in  the  front  porch,  your 
energy  increased.     Without  a  thought  of  fatigue, 
you  strolled  under  the  manorial  oaks — alone?  no, 
not  altogether  alone.     The  incessant  chatter  of  the 
katydids,  and  the  active  vocal  correspondence  of  the 
frogs  in  the  mill-pond  and  the  creeks,  made  it  certain 
that  whatever  you  had  to  say  would  be  heard  only 
by — yourself  ?     Yes,  oh  !  yes.     The  drowsy  tinkle; 
of  the  cow-bells  in  the  "  cup-pen"  smote  softly  on 
your  ear.     The  switching  of  the  whipperwill  mingled 
with  the  ululations  of  the  half-scared  negro,  trudg- 
ing homeward  through  the  distant  woods.     Music- 
from  the  open  windows  of  the  parlor,  dipped  in  the 
perfume  of  flowers  freshened  by  the  night  dews,, 
lifted  your  soul  into  Elysium.     But  the  voice  of  the 
lady  in  white,  whose  little  hand  rested  on  your  arm, 
was  sweeter  than  music  and  flowers  combined. 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  2T 

(If,  in  the  beautiful  vista  of  life  that  opened  then 
before  you,  a  panorama — not  seen  distinctly,  but  ap- 
prehended by  some  fine  lover-sense,  unknown  to 
ordinary  mortals — if  in  that  entrancing  vista,  a 
panorama  of  a  possible  "plantation  and  negroes," 
superadded  to  the  young  lady  in  the  simple  lawn 
dress,  presented  itself  to  you,  ah !  how  could  you 
help  it  ?  and  what  poor,  but  handsome  and  aspiring, 
young  man  in  this  audience  will  blame  you  ?  I  cer- 
tainly will  not.) 

But  it  was  too  sweet  to  last.  You  didn't  want  to- 
go  in,  not  you,  if  it  was  midnight;  but  she  made 
you  go.  Then  came  the  unrepose  in  the  lavendered 
bed,  with  the  night- wind  murmuring  through  the 
locusts  and  aspens,  and  the  starlight  spilling  down 
from  heaven — where  you  cared  not  to  go,  yet  awhile. 
!N"o  rest — for  brain  and  heart  were  on  fire  with  hopes- 
and  fears.  No  rest.  The  mocking-bird  in  the  thorn 
bush,  for  all  his  melody,  was  a  nuisance ;  and  that 
screech  owl  in  the  old  catalpa, — how  you  would  have 
liked  to  cut  his  throat,  slowly,  ever  so  slowly,  with  a, 
dull  case-knife !  At  last,  consciousness  melted  away 
into  the  paradise  of  dreams,  and  you  awoke  in  the 
morning  to  find  your  sweetheart  fairer  than  the 
fleecy  clouds  and  sweeter  than  the  dew-washed  roses. 

On  some  accounts,  the  winter  was  even  better  than 
the  summer  for  a  visit  to  the  old  Virginia  gentle- 
man's home.  There  were  more  sports,  Christmas 
parties,  sleigh-rides,  etc.,  and  a  different  order  of 
eatables  and  drinkables.  But  you  devoured  your 
lady-love,  opposite  whom  the  cunning  waiter  was. 


28  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

sure  to  seat  you.  She  was  fatter,  plumper,  rosier, 
arm-fuller,  warmer,  impudenter,  more  mischievous, 
harder  to  catch,  marriageable!*,  exceedingly  much 
more  to  be  desired  in  marriage,  and  everything  more 
delicious  than  before.  After  breakfast,  and  such  a 
breakfast,  a  ride  on  horseback  was  demanded  by  all 
the  laws  of  digestion.  Coming  back  at  a  flying 
gallop,  she  was  apt  to  look  something  very  like  "yes," 
and  put  whip  to  her  steed.  Then  came  a  race. 
Fox-hunting  was  a  fool  to  it !  Rather  than  fail  in 
finding  out  the  full  meaning  of  that  look,  you  would 
have  killed  the  last  one  of  her  father's  blooded 
horses.  And  when  you  caught  up,  oh  !  misery — the 
slippery  minx  had  no  affirmative  for  you,  and  you 
were  "Mr.  Impudence"  for  your  pains.  During 
the  dance  at  night,  she  would  give  you,  once  an 
hour,  a  glance  that  was  worth  a  king's  ransom,  and 
for  the  ensuing  fifty-nine  minutes  and  fifty -nine 
seconds  was  anybody's,  everybody  else's  but  yours. 
"When  the  dancing  was  all  over,  and  you  hail  lingered 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  until  you  had  well-nigh 
disgraced  yourself,  she  would  bid  you  good-night  in 
tones  that  melted  the  very  soul  within  you,  dazzle 
you  with  her  parting  smile,  and  with  the  least  little 
bit  of  a  pressure  of  her  tiny  hand — "just  enough  to 
last  you  till  morning," — dart  up  stairs  like  a  meteor. 
The  house  was  so  full  of  company  that  you  were 
sent  out  to  the  "office"  in  the  yard,  to  stay  with  the 
boys.  Time  was  when  you  asked  nothing  better; 
now,  it  was  pure  torture.  The  gabble  of  brothers 
and  cousins  about  horses,  dogs,  guns,  duels,  "  old 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  29 

Soc,"  "old  Gess,"  "Schele,"  "Math,"  getting 
"pitched,"  and  the  deuce  knows  what,  disgusted  and 
maddened  you.  You  wanted  to  be  alone  with  your 
celestial  thoughts,  and  they  wanted  you  to  play 
euchre  and  drink  whiskey-punch  or  apple-toddy. 
Idiots !  You  consigned  them  all,  without  scruple, 
to  the  bottom  of  the  pit  that  has  no  bottom. 

Ah  me !  those  were  days  of  the  gods.  Ask  any 
man  here  of  five  and  forty  or  fifty  if  they  were  not. 
Are  there  any  such  country  homes  left  in  Virginia  ? 
Is  there  even  one  such  home ?  And  do  they  have 
such  delights  in  them  now  ?  I  know  not — I  know 
not.  I  have  outlived  my  time. 

Carried  away  by  recollections  of  the  sweethearts 
of  other  days,  the  most  of  whom  are  grandmothers 
now,  I  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  old  Virginia 
gentleman  himself.  But  I  have  not.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  give  his  surroundings.  The  large  estate,  the 
commodious  house,  the  gentle  wife,  the  sons  and 
daughters,  are  but  accessories  of  the  principal  figure. 
How  shall  I  draw  that  true  to  nature  ?  The  popular 
idea  of  the  old  Virginia  gentleman,  even  in  our  own 
minds,  is  about  as  correct  as  that  of  the  typical 
Yankee,  in  bell-crown  hat,  swallow-tail  coat,  striped 
breeches  and  short  waistcoat.  "  Porte  Crayon"  has 
a  picture  of  the  old  gentleman  in  "  Virginia  Illus- 
trated;" Kennedy,  in  the  "Swallow  Barn,"  gives 
us  another ;  and  Elder,  in  an  admirable  unfin- 
ished sketch  of  a  country  court-day  in  Virginia, 
furnishes  a  third.  All  agree  in  representing  him  as 


30  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

.a  stout,  bluff,  hearty,  jovial  old  fellow,  fond  of  juleps, 
horse  races,  and  "  a  little  game  of  draw."  This,  to 
be  sure,  is  one  kind  of  Virginian,  but  not  the  typical 
kind,  and  by  no  means  my  ideal  of  an  old  Virginia 
gentleman.  The  truth  is,  there  are  several  types, 
of  which  I  distinguish  five  as  more  clearly  marked 
than  any  others,  viz : 

I.  The  one  above  given  by  Elder,  Strother  and 
Kennedy. 

II.  A    small,    thin,    sharp  featured,    black-eyed, 
•swarthy  man;   passionate,  fiery  indeed  in  temper; 
keen  for  any  sort  of  discussion ;  profane,  but  swear- 
ing naturally  and  at  times  delightfully ;  hot,  quick, 
bitter  as  death;  magnanimous,  but  utterly  implac- 
able— a  red  Indian  imprisoned  in  the  fragile  body 
of  a  consumptive  old  Roman. 

III.  A    broad,    solid,    large-headed,    large-faced, 
heavy,  actually  fat,  deeply-pious  old  gentleman — 
beaming  with  benevolence,  the  soul  (and  body,  too !) 
of  hospitality  and  kindness,  simple  as  a  child,  absent- 
minded,  unpractical  to  the  last  degree,  and  yet  pros- 
perous, because  God  just  loves  him — a  dear,  big,  old 
father  to  everybody. 

IV.  A  refined,  scrupulously-neat,  carefully-dressed, 
high-toned,  proud,  exclusive  man ;    courteous,  but 
somewhat  cold ;    a  judge  of  rare  old  wines  and  a 
lover  of  them ;  a  scholarly  but  dry  and  ungenial  in- 
tellect; regardful  of  manners,  a  stickler  for  forms 
and   social   distinctions;    fond    of   ancient  customs, 
observances  and  fashions,   even  to   the   cut  of  his 
•clothes,  which  he  would  fain  have  made  colonial; 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  31 

an  aristocrat,  born  and  bred,  and  never  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  fact;  a  high  type,  one  that  com- 
manded more  of  respect  than  love,  but  not,  I  think, 
the  highest  type. 

Y.  Last  and  best  comes  the  Virginian,  less  fiery 
than  the  old  Roman-Indian,  but  of  spirit  quite  as 
high ;  as  courteous  every  whit  as  the  aristocrat  just 
named,  but  not  so  mannered ;  in  culture  not  inferior 
to  either,  and  adding  thereto  a  gentleness  almost 
feminine,  and  a  humility  born  only,  as  my  experience 
teaches,  of  a  devout  Christian  spirit;  a  lover  of 
children  with  his  whole  heart,  and  idolized  by  them 
in  turn;  knightly  in  his  regard  for  womankind,  in 
the  lowest  fully  as  much  as  in  the  highest  sphere ; 
— in  a  word,  as  nearly  perfect  as  human  infirmity 
permits  man  to  be.  An  old  gentleman  of  Maryland, 
himself  a  fine  specimen  of  an  admirable  class,  told 
me  that  what  impressed  him  most  in  the  Virginia 
gentlemen  whom  he  met  at  the  Springs  and  else- 
where, but  more  especially  those  who  lived  nearest 
him  in  the  Northern  Neck,  was  a  humility  amount- 
ing almost  to  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  yet  joined  to 
so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  human  worth  that  they 
could  not  and  would  not  for  an  instant  brook  in 
others  any  disregard  of  those  claims  of  simple  man- 
hood which  instinct  alone,  and  quite  apart  from 
education  or  social  advantage,  suffices  thoroughly  to 
teach. 

In  our  college  presidents  and  professors,  our  judges, 
senators,  and  other  dignitaries,  this  lack  of  all  pre- 
tence, and  even  of  self-assertion,  amounted,  I  have 


32  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

sometimes  thought,  to  a  fault.  But  better  this,  far 
better,  when  back  of  it  lay  all  proper  pride  and  per- 
sonal courage,  than  the  starchy  vanity  and  conceit 
of  priggish  Dons  in  other  quarters  of  the  globe. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  last  of  the  five  classes 
just  given  is  the  typical  Virginian.  He,  indeed, 
must  be  found  by  combining  the  separate  types ;  but 
we  have  all  seen  specimens  of  this  'best  class, — few 
counties  but  contained  one  or  more  of  them, — and 
we  do  know  that  higher,  nobler  men  never  lived  on 
earth. 

"No ;  to  me  the  strangest  possible  of  mistakes  is  to 
reckon  the  broad-waisted,  jovial,  rollicking  English 
squire  as  the  true  Virginia  type.  The  richest  and 
most  varied  growths  do  not  come  out  of  cold  white 
clay,  but  out  of  dark  warm  mould ;  and  in  the  depths 
of  the  Arirginia  character  there  was  ever  a  stratum 
of  grave  thought  and  feeling  that  not  seldom  sank 
into  sadness  and  even  gloom. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Whether  he  lived 
on  the  banks  of  the  great  tidal  rivers,  and  from  his 
porches  and  windows  was  wont  to  watch  the  trees, 
faint  and  spectral,  standing  on  the  distant  points  far 
across  the  waves,  with  here  and  there  a  tired  sail 
wandering  away  into  the  underworld,  as  if  nevermore 
to  return ;  or  from  his  quiet  home  upon  the  hills  of 
Piedmont  saw,  day  after  day  from  childhood,  the 
mighty  Ridge,  a  rampart  of  Cyclopean  steel,  thrown 
all  athwart  the  sky  and  fading  in  misty  fire  at  the 
portals  of  the  setting  sun ;  or  in  the  great  Valley  be- 
held himself  in  an  earthlv  Paradise,  shut  in  between 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  33 

battlements  built  by  the  gods ;  or  in  the  heart  of  the 
Alleghanies  felt  his  young  soul  awed  by  the  huge 
mountain  forms,  sphynxes  as  silent  and  much  more 
vast  than  that  of  Egypt ;  live  wherever  he  might  in 
Virginia,  the  breadth  and  grandeur  of  these  aspects 
of  nature  imparted  their  solemnity  to  him.  His 
spirit  was  attuned  from  infancy  to  the  moaning  of 
the  pines  and  the  sea-like  murmur  of  the  wind  in 
the  forests  around  him ;  the  desolation  and  barren- 
ness of  some  of  his  neighbors'  fields,  wasted  by  bad 
tillage,  left  their  impress  upon  him ;  insensibly  his 
mind  took  the  sombre  coloring  of  these  surround- 
ings, and,  however  gay  he  might  be  at  times,  the 
warp  of  his  life  was  always  grave. 

The  profound  sense  of  responsibility  to  his  Maker 
added  to  this  gravity.  As  husband,  father,  master, 
he  felt  to  the  full  the  weight  of  human  duty.  But 
high  above  them  all  rose  his  Roman  sense  of  civic 
obligation.  Civis  Americanus  sum  had  in  his  day 
a  meaning  which  seems  lost  in  these  later  times. 
That  meaning  never  left  him.  He  could  not  forget 
it,  and  what  is  more,  he  did  not  want  to.  Often  the 
presiding  magistrate  of  his  county ;  often,  too,  its 
representative  in  the  legislature  or  in  congress,  he 
continued  to  direct  its  politics  long  after  he  ceased 
to  take  active  part  in  them.  His  interest  in  public 
affairs  abated  only  with  his  breath.  In  addition  to 
the  many  cares  that  grew  out  of  this  interest  were 
the  scarcely  less  heavy  anxieties  that  pressed  upon 
him  as  the  friend,  the  counsellor,  the  fiduciary,  the 
referee  and  the  arbitrator  in  the  troubles  and  differ- 
3 


34  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

ences  of  opinion  among  his  neighbors.  His  old 
escritoir  or  secretary  was  full  of  wills,  deeds,  notes 
of  hand,  and  settlements  of  every  kind.  The  widow 
and  the  orphan  turned  at  once  to  him  in  all  their 
trials.  He  never  failed  them — never. 

His  reading  helped  largely  to  increase  the  gravity 
due  to  all  the  trusts  just  named.  The  Federalist 
and  other  writings  of  Madison,  the  works  of  George 
Mason,  Jefferson  and  Calhoun,  Elliott's  Debates,  the 
Greek  and  especially  the  Roman  historians,  the 
Letters  of  Junius  and  the  speeches  of  Burke,  made 
up  the  bulk  of  his  library,  and  fed  his  mind  with 
thoughts  of  that  deepest  and  saddest  of  all  problems 
— human  government.  If  his  neglect  of  scientific 
studies  was,  as  I  once  held,  simply  shameful,  it  was, 
1  am  now  willing  and  glad  to  believe,  because  science 
had  not  done  in  his  day  what  indeed  it  has  even  now 
but  imperfectly  done — found  its  true  objective  in 
questions  of  government — the  one  paramount,  under- 
lying and  absorbing  interest  of  the  Virginian's  life. 
His  place  on  the  border,  in  immediate  sight  of  the 
national  capital,  the  centre  of  power,  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  forget  the  boding  prophecies  of  Henry 
anterior  to  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution.  In  his 
ears  rang  ever  the  hollow  murmur  of  that  "  fire-bell 
in  the  night"  that  affrighted  the  philosopher  of 
Monticello.  If  jealously  guarding  the  only  charter 
of  rights  left  to  him  as  a  part  of  an  ever-weakening 
minority,  he  insisted  upon  strict  constructions,  not 
of  the  letter  only,  but  of  the  spirit  of  the  organic 
law,  and  that  were  a  fault,  it  was  a  fault  from  which 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  35 

there  was  no  escape  short  of  absolute  surrender  of 
his  own  liberty  and  that  of  the  American  people. 
His  nice  distinctions  were  drawn  in  defence  of  truth, 
of  justice,  of  the  good  of  the  whole  Union,  nay,  of 
all  mankind ;  and  he  did  well  to  split  hairs  when  but 
a  hair  stood  between  him  and  degradation. 

Could  he  for  a  moment  fail  to  remember  that  the 
moral  of  the  American  Revolution,  its  sole  value 
and  excuse,  was  the  right  (supposed  to  have  been 
achieved  after  ages  of  strife)  of  self-government,  the 
remembrance  was  forced  back  upon  him  by  con- 
tinued assaults  upon  his  character,  his  property,  and 
all  he  held  dear,  by  a  horde  of  enemies  ever  increas- 
ing in  numbers  and  bitterness.  Yet  it  is  contended 
by  those  who,  pandering  to  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
hour,  are  more  unwilling  than  unable  to  take  in  the 
full  scope  of  this  still  important  argument,  that  in 
grasping  at  shadows  the  Virginian  lost  the  substance 
of  power,  and  gave  up  for  metaphysics  a  prosperity 
he  might  easily  have  retained.  I  deny  it  utterly. 

Conceding  for  the  moment  that  there  can  be  last- 
ing prosperity  without  good  government,  I  point  to 
the  map.  The  configuration  of  the  American  con- 
tinent, the  northeastward  trend  of  the  Atlantic  coast, 
and  the  course  of  the  gulf  stream,  which  still  carries 
the  steamship  in  the  very  path  of  the  sailing  vessel, 
were  not  of  the  Virginian's  making.  Climate  and 
soil,  which  made  manufactures  a  necessity  in  New 
England,  made  agriculture  a  luxury  to  the  Virginian. 
Yet  he  tried  manufactures.  How  exceeding  wise 
are  the  sons  of  to-day  who  twit  their  fathers  with 


36  tTHE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

not  having  done  this!  Over  and  again  the  Vir- 
ginian tried  them,  and  over  again  was  he  crushed  by 
associated  capital.  Immigration,  determined  in  part 
by  latitude  and  isotherms,  but  rigorously  by  prox- 
imity, ease  and  rapidity  of  access,  the  Virginian 
could  no  more  control  than  he  could  control  the 
motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  yet  despite  immigra- 
tion, dense  population  and  concentrated  wealth,  de- 
spite tariffs  and  protective  laws  devised  for  his  ruin, 
he  and  his  brethren  of  the  South  at  the  outbreaking 
of  the  late  war  were  richer  far,  man  for  man,  than 
their  fellows  of  the  North.  Property  was  more 
evenly  distributed,  crime  and  pauperism  were  almost 
unknown,  jails  were  empty,  poor-houses  empty,  beg- 
gars were  wonders,  and  social  elevation,  large  areas 
considered,  was  incomparably  superior.  An  old 
song,  this.  Yes,  but  it  needs  repeating  when  a  Vir- 
ginian declares  that  the  Virginians  of  his  own  day 
lack  "public  spirit."  Masterly  as  the  oration  at 
Randolph  Macon  undoubtedly  was,  and  much  needed 
as  was  the  rebuke  then  administered  to  our  over- 
weening self-esteem,  something  may  be  said  on  the 
other  side.  Indeed,  the  very  highest  proof  ever 
given  of  the  large  and  generous  spirit  of  Virginians 
was  the  burst  of  applause  that  everywhere  greeted 
an  accusation  which,  coming  from  a  son  less  tried 
and  proven  by  fire  of  battle,  might  well  have  been 
accounted  abuse  and  almost  slander. 

Virginians  wanting  in  public  spirit?  'Tis  a  new 
accusation  indeed.  Why,  the  cuckoo  cry  of  the 
North  for  half  a  century  has  been  that  the  Virginian 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  37 

•devoted  his.  time  to  politics,  to  the  utter  neglect  of 
his  private  afiairs.  Well  I  know,  and  so  does  he, 
what  manner  of  spirit  it  was  that  fired  Virginia  in 
1860,  but  'tis  not  of  that  he  speaks.  Perhaps  he 
means  that,  engrossed  in  self-admiration,  our  nar- 
row sympathies  would  not  permit  us  to  love,  I  will 
not  say  the  Yankees,  but  the  American  people.  In 
my  soul,  I  think  the  Virginian  loved  them  better 
than  they  loved  themselves;  for  he  who  truly  loves 
liberty  loves  truly  and  to  purpose  all  mankind.  Is 
it  public  improvements  that  he  means  ?  Possibly, 
for  public  spirit  and  running  in  debt — hastening  a 
premature  and  unstable  civilization — seem  to  be 
synonymous  now-a-days.  Well,  then,  I  will  take  the 
forty  millions,  spent  much  against  the  old  Virginia 
gentleman's  will,  in  railroads  and  canals,  that  have 
brought  the  State  to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy  and 
repudiation,  when  a  tithe  of  that  sum  expended,  in 
maintenance  of  his  faith,  upon  a  well-devised  system 
of  county  roads  would  have  made  ours  the  happiest 
and  most  solvent  Commonwealth  in  the  South,  if  not 
in  all  the  land.  What  call  you  that  ?  Fealty  to  the 
first  great  principle  of  our  American  form  of  govern- 
ment— the  minimum  of  State  interference  and  assis- 
tance in  order  to  attain  the  maximum  of  individual 
development  and  endeavor — that  was  the  Virginian's 
•conception  of  public  spirit,  and,  if  our  system  be 
right,  it  is  the  right  conception. 

Aye !  but  the  Virginian  made,  slavery  the  touch- 
stone and  the  test  in  all  things  whatsoever,  State  or 
Federal.  Truly  he  did,  and  why  ? 


38  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

This  button  here  upon  my  cuff  is  valueless,  whether 
for  use  or  for  ornament,  but  you  shall  not  tear  it 
from  me  and  spit  in  my  face  besides;  no,  not  if  it 
cost  me  my  life.  And  if  your  time  be  passed  in  the 
attempt  to  so  take  it,  then  my  time  and  my  every 
thought  shall  be  spent  in  preventing  such  outrage. 
Let  alone,  the  Virginian  would  gladly  have  made  an 
end  of  slavery,  but,  strange  hap !  malevolence  and 
meddling  bound  it  up  with  every  interest  that  was 
dear  to  his  heart — wife,  home,  honor — and  by  a  sad 
providence  it  became  the  midmost  boss,  the  very 
centre  of  that  buckler  of  State  rights  which  he  held 
up  against  the  worst  of  tyrants — a  sectional  ma- 
jority. 

But  a  darker  accusation  yet  remains.  This  also  is 
a  discovery — made  since  the  war.  It  is  charged  that 
our  fathers  threw  away  a  great  estate,  an  empire  in 
truth,  and  surrendered  constitutional  rights  of  in- 
estimable value,  not  for  love  of  our  common  country, 
for  peace  and  brotherhood,  but  for  what,  think  you? 
Mark  it  well — for  the  sake  of  Federal  office,  and 
that  alone  !  Yes !  this  is  the  accusation  brought  by 
Yirginians  against  their  fathers.  No  Yankee  brings 
it.  I  never  heard  it  'till  a  Virginian  of  1876  brought 
it.  Though  I  may  be  excused  for  calling  in  ques- 
tion the  motive  of  him  who  imputes  such  motives  to 
others  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  I  will  not  do  so. 
I  will  summon  history  to  bar,  and  ask  her  whether 
the  Virginians  who  espoused  New  England's  cause 
and  perished  amid  the  snows  of  Canada  were  office- 
seeking  when  they  died  ?  And  I  will  file  in  answer 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  39 

to  this  charge  a  single  act  of  our  Legislature  in  1867, 
when  Virginia,  impoverished  and  dissevered,  as- 
sumed the  entire  indebtedness,  principal  and  in- 
terest, of  two  States.  Was  that  office-seeking  ?  "Was 
that  the  prompting  of  self-interest  ? 

Noble  folly!  Magnanimous  stupidity?  Nay,  I 
reckon  it  rather  the  dying  murmur,  the  last  true 
beat  of  that  great  Virginia  heart,  whose  generous 
and  unselfish  pulse  kept  time  to  an  exalted  sense  of 
duty. 

This  doubtless  was  the  weakness  of  the  Virginia 
gentleman  of  the  olden  time.  It  was  not  the  weak- 
ness of  a  mean  or  grovelling  spirit,  or  one  in  imita- 
tion of  which  the  world  will  soon  destroy  itself.  He 
was  not  wiser,  he  was  not  more  learned,  he  was  not 
more  successful  than  other  men.  Wherein,  then, 
lay  his  strength,  and  what  was  the  secret  of  his  in- 
fluence over  all  this  land  ?  I  answer  in  one  word — 
character.  And  what  is  meant  by  character  ? 
Courage  ?  Yes ;  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  and 
physical  courage  as  well,  for  he  had  a  Briton's  faith 
in  pluck.  Pride  of  race  ?  In  a  limited  sense,  yes. 
Honesty  ?  The  question  is  almost  an  insult. 
"  Madam,"  said  Judge  John  Robertson,  when  in 
Congress,  to  his  wife,  who  asked  him  to  frank  a  letter 
for  her,  "  Madam,  I  am  not  a  thief !"  Love  of  truth  ? 
Yes;  undying  love  of  it.  And  more — what  more? 
A  certain  inherited  something  in  the  blood  and 
bodily  fibre  that  fused  all  these  qualities  and  lifted 
them  as  a  steady  concentrated  light  in  a  Pharos,  so 
that  the  simple  look  of  the  man,  the  poise  of  his 


40  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

head,  his  very  gait,  betrayed  the  elevation  of  his 
nature.  Therein  lay  his  strength,  before  which 
wiser  men,  as  the  world  runs,  and  far  wealthier  men 
bowed  almost  in  homage.  Character — character, 
fixed  upon  the  immutable  basis  of  honor,  and  a  love 
of  liberty  unquenchable — that  was  the  source  of  his 
power,  and  the  whole  of  it. 

From  the  pale,  defeated  lips  of  Virginians,  weak- 
ened by  poverty,  comes  the  sneer  (we  hear  it  too 
often  now-a-days),  "  Can  honor  set  a  leg  ?"  No, 
truly  ;  but  dishonor  can  damn  to  everlasting  infamy 
a  human  soul. 

But  whatever  its  source,  character,  or  what  you 
will,  the  greatness  of  the  Yirginian  in  times  past 
cannot  be  gainsaid  ;  it  is  everywhere  conceded.  And 
yet  this  mediocre  age,  which  sneers  at  honor,  natu- 
rally enough  decries  greatness.  Decries  ?  yea,  denies 
its  very  existence.  "  The  individual  withers,  and  the 
world  is  more  and  more."  So  much  the  worse  for 
the  world,  were  it  true.  They  who  looked  Lee  and 
Jackson  in  the  face,  and  fought  under  them ;  they 
who  have  seen  Bismarck  and  King  William  make 
Germany  in  the  very  teeth  of  its  hostile  Reichstag, 
believe  it.  How  passing  strange  !  String  cyphers 
till  the  crack  of  doom,  they  count  nothing.  Cut  out 
of  the  world's  book  the  pages  made  lustrous  by  the 
words  and  deeds  of  great  men,  and  the  rest  is  blank. 
Myriads  living  in  Africa  for  unnumbered  centuries 
have  left  no  sign.  But  look  at  Greece ;  at  only  one 
of  its  States.  Galton,  in  his  able  work  on  Hereditary 
Genius,  calls  attention  to  the  "  magnificent  breed  of 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  41 

human  animals  "  reared  in  a  single  century  in  Attica, 
^enumerates  fourteen  of  the  greatest  of  them,  and  says, 
<l  We  have  no  men  to  put  by  the  side  of  Socrates  and 
Phidias.  The  millions  of  all  Europe,  breeding  for 
two  thousand  years,  have  never  produced  their  equals. 
The  population  which  produced  these  men  amounted 
to  135,000  free  males,  born  in  the  century  named, 
530-430  B.  C." 

On  the  first  day  of  December,  1763,  Patrick 
Henry  made  his  speech  in  the  Parsons'  cause,  and 
after  the  Convention  of  '29-'30  the  giants  no  longer 
assembled  in  Virginia.  I  will  put  the  breed  of  human 
animals  reared  in  this  interval,  less  than  a  century,  out 
of  a  free  male  population  not  exceeding  that  of  Attica, 
against  any  other  ever  produced  in  this  world.  I  doubt 
if  the  Roman  senate  or  the  Athenian  Areopagus  ever 
at  one  time  contained  quite  such  a  body  of  men  as 
were  gathered  in  our  famous  Convention,  and  I  will 
say,  with  Galton,  that  we  have  not  now,  nor  are  we 
likely  ever  again  to  have,  two  such  men  as  Washing- 
ton and  Jefferson. 

But,  would  you  believe  it,  Jefferson  is  a  plagiarist ! 
a  thief  not  only  of  words,  but  of  ideas !  He  has  no 
claim  to  originality — his  thoughts,  his  very  language, 
•everything  borrowed  or  stolen  outright !  That  has 
been  deliberately  and  publicly  charged,  not  by  men 
of  the  North,  but  by  a  Virginian.  Well,  let  us  see. 

"  This  new  principle  of  so  constituting  a  Federal 
Republic  as  to  make  it  {  one  nation  as  to  foreign  con- 
cerns, and  to  keep  us  distinct  as  to  domestic  ones,' 
was  indicated  as  early  as  December,  1786,  by  Mr. 


42  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

Jefferson  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Madison."  That  is  an^ 
historical  fact,  testified  to  by  Alex.  H.  Stephens. 

"  It  is  the  very  greatest  refinement  in  social  policy 
to  which  any  state  of  circumstances  has  ever  given 
rise,  or  to  which  any  age  has  ever  given  birth." 
That  is  the  testimony  of  Lord  Brougham.  "  It  is  a 
wholly  novel  thing,  which  may  be  considered  a  great 
discovery  in  modern  political  science,  and  for  which 
there  is  even  yet  no  specific  name."  That  is  the 
testimony  of  De  Tocqueville.  This  will  suffice.  Jef- 
ferson's fame  is  firm-based  as  the  pyramids ;  it  can- 
not be  shaken  ;  and  they  who  decry  him  do  but  be- 
little themselves. 

A  soil  is  known  by  its  crops,  a  tree  by  its  fruit.. 
Materials  are  tested  by  the  strain  they  will  bear; 
flowers  give  forth  their  sweets  under  compression, 
but  yield  their  inmost  virtues  only  to  the  torture  of 
the  crucible.  The  flowers  and  the  fruitage  of  a  land 
are  its  men.  The  test  of  men  is  the  strain  of  war ; 
the  supreme  test  the  torture  of  defeat.  Virginians 
were  tested  in  the  war  of  the  Revolution,  again  in 
1812,  again  in  Mexico,  again  in  the  great  rebellion, 
so-called,  and  yet  again  in  the  long  torture  of  recon- 
struction. Where,  I  ask  in  the  candor  of  a  triumph 
so  amazing  that  it  almost  humiliates,  where  are  all 
the  honors  ?  Were  these  successive  honors  the  re- 
sult of  chance  ?  Are  the  great  names  and  the  heroic 
deeds  associated  with  these  wars  of  no  value  ?  There 
can  be  but  one  answer,  and  it  is  so  complete  it  sad- 
dens me ;  for  well  I  know — I  think  I  know — the 
end  has  come.  It  has  certainly  come  if,  for  the  sake 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  4r& 

of  present  comfort,  the  Virginians  of  to-day  are 
willing  to  forfeit  these  honors  and  to  despise  these 
names.  What  neither  war  nor  defeat  could  effect* 
poverty,  long  continued,  has  accomplished — it  has 
broken  them  down  at  last.  I  fear  so,  indeed. 

My  friends,  it  is  not  I  who  say  it ;  it  is  nature,  it 
is  God  who  says  it — man,  like  all  other  organisms, 
is  subject  to  his  environment.  Change  the  environ- 
ment, he  changes  with  it ;  destroy  it,  and  he  is  de- 
stroyed. But  'tis  not  the  earth  he  treads  nor  the 
air  he  breathes  that  constitutes  man's  true  environ- 
ment ;  it  is  the  social  atmosphere  that  makes  the 
man  or  mars  him.  Great  minds,  great  hearts,  noble 
spirits,  are  not  fed  on  base  thoughts  and  low  ambi- 
tions ;  and  if  the  glory  of  Virginia  in  the  past  has 
been  incontestably  greater  than  that  of  all  her  sister 
States  combined,  it  must  be  because  her  sons  inhaled 
at  home  a  finer,  purer  air.  Ask  yourselves  whether 
that  atmosphere  has  changed  or  is  changing,  and 
frankly  own  all  of  good  or  ill  that  slavery  involves. 
If  it  accompanied  here,  as  in  Greece,  the  develop- 
ment of  a  splendid  breed  of  animals,  say  so ;  if  it 
helped  that  development,  say  so  f earlessly.  For  one,. 
I  say  with  confidence,  that  the  abolition  of  slavery 
has  so  changed  the  environment  of  the  Virginian  that 
another  and  wholly  different  man  must  take  his  place. 
Will  he  be  a  better  man  ?  I  do  not  know  ;  I  hope 
he  may.  Will  he  be  worse  ?  Time  will  tell. 

But  whatever  the  Virginian  may  have  been,  the 
coldest  envy  and  the  meanest  jealousy  may  look  upon 
him  now  with  complacency.  If  he  were  vain,  his- 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

vanity  stands  him  now  in  little  stead.  If  he  were 
proud,  his  pride  need  wound  you  no  longer.  "  No 
farther  seek  his  virtues  to  disclose,  or  draw  his  frail- 
ties from  their  dread  abode ;"  but  come — 

I. 

Come  listen  to  another  song, 

Should  make  your  heart  beat  high, 
Bring  crimson  to  your  forehead, 
And  lustre  to  your  eye. 

It  is  a  tale  of  olden  time, 

Of  days  long  since  gone  by, 
And  of  a  baron  stout  and  bold 
As  e'er  wore  sword  on  thigh, 
Like  a  brave  Virginia  gentleman 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

II. 

His  castle  was  his  country  home 

Hard  by  the  river  James, 
Full  two  hundred  servants  dwelt  around — 
He  called  them  by  their  names  ; 

And  life  to  them  no  hardship  was, 

'Twas  all  things  else  I  ween  ; 
They  were  the  happiest  peasantry 

This  world  has  ever  seen, 
Despite  the  Abolition  chevaliers 
All  of  the  Northern  clime  ! 

III. 

His  father  drew  his  trusty  sword 
In  Freedom's  righteous  cause, 
Among  the  gallant  gentlemen 
Who  made  nor  stop  nor  pause 

Till  they  had  broken  wide  apart 
The  British  bolts  and  bars, 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  45 

And  lifted  up  to  Freedom's  sky 

The  standard  of  the  stars, 
Like  true  rebellious  gentlemen 
All  of  that  manly  time. 

IV. 
He  never  owned  a  foreign  rule, 

A  master  he  would  scorn ; 
Trained  in  the  Revolution's  school, 
To  Liberty  was  born  ! 

And  when  they  asked  him  for  his  oath, 

He  touched  his  war-worn  blade, 
Aud^pointed  to  his  lapel  grey, 
That  bore  the  blue  cockade ! 
Like  a  straight-out  States'  Rights  gentleman, 
All  of  that  trying  time. 

V. 

And  then  the  words  rang  through  the  land, 
"  Coercion  is  to  be  1" 
"  Coercion  of  the  free?" 
That  night  the  dreadful  news  was  spread 
From  mountains  to  the  sea  ; 

And  our  old  Baron  rose  in  might 

Like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
And  rode  in  haste  across  the  hills 

To  join  the  fighting  men, 
Like  a  staunch  Virginia  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

VI. 

He  was  the  first  to  fire  the  gun 

When  Sumter  was  assailed, 
He  it  was  who  life  disdained 

When  our  Great  Cause  had  failed, 
And  ever  in  the  van  of  fight 
The, foremost  still  he  trod, 


46  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

Until  on  Appomattox'  height 

He  gave  his  soul  to  God, 
Like  a  good  Virginia  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time. 

VII. 
Ah!  never  shall  we  know  again 

A  heart  so  stout  and  true  ; 
The  olden  times  have  passed  away, 
And  weary  are  the  new. 

The  fair  white  rose  has  faded 

From  the  garden  where  it  grew, 
And  no  fond  tears  save  those  of  heaven 

The  glorious  bed  bedew 
Of  the  last  Virginia  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time  ! 

Oh !  good  grey  head  of  Arlington !  when  thy  great 
sore  heart,  that  ever  took  unto  itself  all  blame,  burst 
behind  the  mute  lips,  and  Rockbridge  earth  received 
the  stateliest  man  of  all  our  time,  then  indeed  the 
last  Virginia  gentleman  was  laid  to  sleep  in  his  mo- 
ther's lap,  and  the  heroic  age  of  Virginia  ended. 
"The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth"  come  not 
again ;  there  is  no  second  age  of  Pericles. 

As  were  the  sons,  so  was  their  mother.  She  gave 
them  life ;  they  repaid  her  with  immortality.  Many 
sons  have  brought  honor  to  many  lands,  but  it  is  the 
crowning  glory  of  Virginia  that  her  children  sought 
honor  in  noble  deeds  performed  more  for  others  than 
for  herself,  and  that  her  fame,  like  her  own  Lee's, 
is  the  fame  of  self-abnegation.  The  quarrel  of  1776 
was  less  her  own  than  that  of  the  North ;  the  quar- 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  47 

xel  of  18 60-' 61  was  that  of  the  South  more  than 
Virginia's ;  her  career  has  been  a  continuous  giving, 
not  a  taking ;  she  owes  nothing  to  conquest,  but  all 
to  successive  benefactions ;  in  dwindling  from  an 
empire  to  a  span  she  obtained  glory  at  every  parti- 
tion ;  and  as  her  body  was  wasted  her  soul  found  im- 
mortal expansion.  Martyr  of  States,  her  baptism 
and  exaltation  have  been  the  evils  requited  unto  her 
in  return  for  the  good  she  did  for  others.  She  gave 
George  Washington,  and  received — Canby!  As  a 
recompense  for  John  Marshall,  she  received — Under- 
wood ! 

But  why  call  the  bead-roll  of  her  mighty  names  in 
•contrast  with  the  pigmies  sent  to  annoy  and  the  ver- 
min to  defile  her  ?  She  gave  the  five  States  of  the 
Northwest,  and  was  rent  in  twain  for  it ;  and  they 
who  would  not  allow  her  to  secede  tore  her  in  pieces. 
Nor  was  this  all.  The  last  possible  of  indignities, 
the  cruelest  of  all  thorns  in  the  crown  of  her  martyr- 
dom was  yet  to  come.  With  long  and  bitter  travail 
of  war  and  of  thought,  with  lavish  flow  of  blood,  and 
of  money  to  repair  the  broken  credit  of  the  Union, 
.she  achieved  liberty  for  herself  and  her  sisters  of  the 
North ;  and  they,  not  content  with  her  Poland-like 
partition,  gave  her  over  to  the  mercies,  anything  but 
tender,  of  her  former  slaves  and  of  adventurers  in- 
finitely worse  than  slaves.  Well  might  Barbour  of 
Orange  exclaim,  this  is  "  the  crime  of  the*nineteenth 
century ! "  This  was  indeed  "  subj ugation  of  the  soul." 
True,  it  did  not  succeed,  but  that  was  not  the  fault  of 
the  projectors  of  the  plan — compared  with  which, 


48  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA   GENTLEMAN. 

had  it  been  successful,  the  atrocities  of  Timour  and 
Genghis  were  but  momentary  and  trivial  evils. 

Shame,  shame,  eternal  shame  on  them  who  would 
inflict  such  outrage  upon  her,  who  never  opened  her 
lips  but  to  bless,  nor  lifted  her  hand  but  in  bound- 
less generosity. 

Cursed! — nay, — though  'tis  not  of  a  people,  nor 
yet  of  a  party,  but  of  a  motive  that  I  speak — I  will 
not  curse.  "  Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord,  and 
I  will  repay." 

"Thy  will  be  done." 

It  is  being  done.  -  Mangled  as  she  is,  Virginia  is 
yet  too  magnanimous  to  ask  or  even  desire  to  avenge 
her  wrongs.  "E'en  in  her  ashes  live  her  wonted 
fires,"  and,  were  she  in  power,  she  would  heap  coal& 
of  kindness  upon  the  head  of  her  enemies.  Just  and 
impartial  laws,  an  honest  government,  untainted  by 
fraud  or  sectional  malice — that,  and  only  that,  is  the 
vengeance  Virginia  seeks,  or  ever  sought. 

You  may  say — it  may  have  been  often  said  or 
thought,  though  I  have  not  heard  it — you  may  say 
that  in  giving  away  the  Northwest,  Virginia  gave 
what  was  scarcely  her  own,  or,  if  it  were,  gave  it  at 
a  time  when  earth  was  as  cheap  almost  as  air.  Be 
it  so ;  count  it  then  as  dirt,  though  that  dirt  came  to 
be  armed  men  in  1861;  have  your  will.  You  may 
say,  too,  that  in  giving  her  sons  to  the  North  first,, 
and  afterwards  to  the  South,  she  gave  them  to  a  fame 
which  they  could  in  no  other  way  have  won.  I  will 
admit  it.  But  see  you  here : 

When  the  long  debate  on  slavery  and  the  rights  of 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  49 

the  States  was  drawing  to  a  close,  Virginia  called  her 
sons,  her  best  and  wisest,  in  council.  The  Conven- 
tion of  February  13th,  1861,  second  in  dignity  and 
ability  only  to  that  of  1  S29-'30,  was  overwhelmingly 
Union  in  sentiment.  Virginia's  heart  and  her  head 
were  there.  She  loved  the  Union.  Not  for  what 
she  could  make  out  of  it,  or  for  the  benefits  it  could 
bestow  on  her,  but  for  what  it  had  made  out  of  her, 
for  what  she  had  bestowed  on  it.  Her's  was  a  mo- 
ther's love;  for  the  body  of  the  Union  had  been  hex- 
own  body,  its  soul  her  soul.  And  so,  not  con- 
tent with  her  home  convention,  she  call  in  Wash- 
ington City  another  convention,  a  peace  convention. 
It  was  all  her  own — her  thought,  her  suggestion  en- 
tirely. She  abhorred  strife,  she  yearned  to  avert 
bloodshed.  But  her  Peace  Congress,  received  with 
contempt,  was  sent  back  in  derision.  Still  her  home 
convention  sought  peace  and  ensued  it,  and  urged, 
as  a  dying  and  unresentful  man  might  urge,  the 
maintenance  of  the  Union.  And  then  it  was  that  a 
third  convention  sat  down  at  the  very  doors  of  the 
first,  clamoring  for  secession;  a  fact  of  which  the 
world  seems  ignorant  and  indifferent.  But  with  the 
din  of  imminent  civil  war  in  her  ears,  Virginia,  em- 
bodied in  her  Union  convention,  calmly  pursued  her 
way,  resolute,  undaunted,  not  to  be  shaken  by  con- 
tempt abroad  or  by  threats  of  violence  at  home. 
"What  say  you  to  that  ?  What  sordid  interest  ac- 

t/          V 

tuated  Virginia  then  ?     Was  she  self-seeking  at  that 
time,  or  moved  even  by  that  ambition  which  the 
world  counts   noble — the  love  of  glory  ?     God  in 
4 


50  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

heaven  doth  know  that,  could  Yirginia  have  had  her 
way,  the  only  glory  she  would  have  sought,  the  only 
fame  she  coveted,  would  have  been  the  glory  of  peace, 
the  fame  of  union  and  a  common  prosperity. 

But  it  was  not  so  to  be.  Her  will  was  not  the  will 
of  the  gods ;  fate  decreed  it  far  otherwise. 

At  Lincoln's  call  to  arms  all  was  changed  in  an 
instant.  She  whose  heel  was  wont  to  rest  on  the 
tyrant's  neck,  but  who  late  had  been  a  suppliant  at 
his  knees,  heard  once  more  in  the  gale  that  swept 
from  the  North  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  clank 
of  chains  as  her  own  Henry  had  heard  them  fourscore 
years  before.  Springing  to  her  feet,  Virginia  stepped 
in  front  of  her  daughters,  threw  up  her  mighty 
shield,  and 

"  shook  aloft  her  Eoman  blade, 
Which,  like  a  falcon  towering  in  the  skies, 
Couched  the  fowl  below  with  his  wing's  shade." 

It  was  a  sublime  picture.  No  wonder  a  shout  of 
new-born  hope  and  joyous  exultation  rang  along  the 
yellow  Mississippi  to  the  blue-waved  Gulf  when  that 
picture,  standing  out  in  bold  relief  against  the 
Northern  heavens,  fascinated  every  eye.  No  won- 
der the  tyrant  paused  in  awe.  No  wonder  he  doubled 
and  quadrupled  his  call  for  troops.  Such  sight 
as  that  no  man  had  ever  seen.  Such  spectacle  of  a 
mother  nation's  protecting  wrath  mortal  vision  had 
not  beheld.  It  was  as  if  Liberty  herself,  incarnate 
and  aflame  with  righteous  ire,  stood  up  to  bar  the 
tyrant's  way. 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  51 

That  figure,  outlined  dark,  terrible  and  beautiful 
against  the  horizon  there,  still  stands,  and  in  memory 
will  for  ever  stand,  while  beats  the  human  heart  re- 
sponsive to  the  thrilling  touch  of  noble  deeds.  Of 
this  imperial  print  there  is  but  one  copy.  Its  fel- 
low we  shall  seek  for  in  vain.  Upon  the  long  can- 
vass of  the  ages,  all  crimson  with  wars  and  lustrous 
with  great  and  daring  achievements,  we  shall  find  no 
picture  like  unto  this.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of  a  na- 
tion's self-immola'tion.  The  obelisk  of  the  Matter- 
horn  rises  sheer  9,000  feet  in  the  air.  What  knows 
the  ant,  burrowing  in  the  sand  at  its  foot,  of  its  ele- 
vation? Virginians,  we  must  step  back  two  cen- 
turies ere  we  can  take  in  the  full  measure  of  our 
mother's  unparalelled  self-sacrifice. 

For  Virginia  was  a  nation,  though  a  small  one — a 
distinct  and  a  peculiar  people.  And  well  she  knew 
that,  end  how  this  quarrel  (not  of  her  seeking,  but  of 
her  deploring)  might,  she  must  bear  the  brunt  of  it. 
And  when  the  tempest  came,  and  the  war  burst  in 
thunder  on  her  head,  when  her  sword  was  broken  and 
her  shield  shattered,  Virginia,  firm  as  her  hills,  kept 
her  place  in  the  fore-front  of  battle  still.  Nay, 
more.  Grasping  all  the  shafts  of  war,  like  fabled 
Winkelried  of  old,  she  drove  them  into  her  breast, 
and  gave  her  body,  her  life,  her  soul,  her  all,  to  the 
cause.  Pardon  me,  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  if  I  use 
the  only  fitting  words  when  I  say,  "  she  saved  others ; 
herself  she  could  not,  she  would  not,  save."  And  yet, 
ploughed,  torn,  harried,  swept  by  fire  and  sword, 
vanquished,  dismembered,  destroyed,  she  won  and 


52  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

wears,  wears  now,  such  honor  and  glory  as  beggar 
the  North,  though  it  were  piled  with  California  in- 
gots till  the  gold  dislodged  the  polar  star. 

Think  tenderly  of  Yirginia,  O  North,  for  she  is 
the  sepulchre  of  your  brave.  Think  tenderly  of  Yir- 
ginia, O  South,  for  her  soil  is  saturated  with  the 
blood  of  your  sons.  Speak  tenderly,  Historic  Muse, 
of  Yirginia,  for  in  her  chaste  breast  is  built  the- 
mausoleum  of  American  liberty.  And  thou,  O  Time, 
seal  up  the  book  of  the  record  of  the  deeds  of  her 
sons,  place  it  high  and  safe  upon  the  shelf  of  the 
eternities,  that  in  after  ages,  when  men  shall  come 
again  to  know  God  and  his  best  earthly  image — 
Honor — they  may  take  down  the  volume  and  read 
with  kindling  eyes  and  emulous,  heaving  breast  the 
lesson  of  duty,  devotion  to  principle  and  self-sur- 
render— the  lesson  of  that  alone  which  ennobles  man 
and  lifts  him  almost  level  with  his  Maker. 

But  some  one  will  say,  "  Yirginia  is  not  dead ;  she 
only  sleepeth."  Nay,  not  so.  Of  a  truth,  she  is 
dead.  Let  no  false  hope  or  dream  mislead  you. 
Baronial  Yirginia  is  dead.  Ilium,  nor  Carthage,  nor 
Thebes  is  more  so.  Go  over  the  land  as  I  have 
gone,  and  you  will  see  what  I  have  seen.  There  is 
no  mistaking,  no  possible  mistaking. 

When  I  remember  all  Yirginia  was,  what  she  is,, 
and  what  she  is  to  be,  I  see  passing  down,  down  deep 
into  the  vale  of  shadows,  Love  and  Despair,  bathed 
both  in  tears,  locked  in  embrace  never  to  be  broken, 
and  Death,  with  trailing  scythe,  following  humbly 
after.  And  faint  as  any  whisper  or  sigh  of  soul  for- 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  53 

lorn  there  comes  from  the  valley  of  shadows  that 
truest  Psalm  of  Lost  Life,  the  song  of  "  HOME,  SWEET 
HOME," — a  breath  and  it  is  gone.  And  still  from 
the  lower  deeps,  where  love  and  despair  and  death 
have  all  vanished,  there  is  borne  back,  so  faint  that 
only  thought  can  hear  it,  the  old,  old  refrain — 

"  Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  is  no  place  like  home." 

And  yet  again  there  cornes,  no  longer  a  cry  or  a 
sigh,  but  the  dumb  murmur  of  lips  that  shall  make 
appeal  nevermore — 

"  An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain, 
OhTgiv&me  back  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again." 

It  may  not  be ;  it  may  not  ever  be.  Omnipotence 
itself  brings  not  back  the  past.  A  land  mighty, 
populous,  and  rich,  fabulously  rich,  is  to  come,  other 
and  beautiful  homes  there  will  be,  but  not  the  Vir- 
ginia homes  we  have  known.  The  contrasts  are 
gone — no  deep  shades  to  the  high  lights — no  accom- 
paniment to  the  air — no  black  keys  to  the  piano- 
forte— all,  all  a  dead  death-pale  dirty  level.  Let  the 
night  wind  sigh  through  the  thin  leaves  of  the  dying 
locusts,  let  the  many-voiced  bird  make  mockery  in 
the  bush  of  thorns,  the  owl  hoot  from  the  dark  woods, 
the  wan  moon  look  down  on  the  deserted  garden,  and 
the  lack-lustre  sun  glare  through  the  sick  and  trem- 
bling aspens  on  the  old  house  rotting  to  its  fall — for 
the  homes  that  we  have  known  and  loved — the  dear, 
dear  homes,  we  shall  not  know  again.  No  more ! 
no  more  !  no  more  ! — "  Lochaber  no  more  !" 


54:  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN. 

In  the  realm  of  mind,  and  in  a  temple  fashioned 
not  by  human  hands — a  temple  more  durable  than 
adamant  as  that  outlasts  the  mists  of  dawn — in  that 
palace  of  the  past,  that  citadel  of  light  that  o'ertops 
all  time — there  dwell  two  bright  and  glorious  spirits. 
Twice  ten  hundred  years  they  have  dwelt  there. 
Tall  and  faultless  in  every  feature,  perfect  from 
golden  helm  to  ivory  sandal,  Pallas  Athene  beholds 
the  matchless  work  of  her  children  in  art,  in  verse, 
in  history,  in  philosophy.  Near  her,  darker  of  hue, 
stronger  in  limb  and  feature,  and  of  lower  stature, 
but  majestic  still  and  mighty  beyond  the  might  of  all 
who  have  come  after,  great  Roma,  mother  of  the 
Caesars,  looks  forth  upon  the  imperishable  walls  of 
her  builders  and  the  mightier  masonary  of  her  law- 
givers in  every  civilized  land.  And  see,  oh !  see, 
even  while  I  speak,  beside  these  two  rise  a  third, 
more  beautiful  than  either,  for  the  light  of  Bethle- 
hem's star  is  on  her  brow,  more  than  one  thorn  from 
the  crown  of  thorns  has  pierced  her  temples  fair,  no 
shame  of  Phryne  or  of  Sappho  is  on  her  pallid  cheek, 
no  blood  of  Colosseum  or  Circus  Maximus  stains  her 
palms',  but  only  the  unexampled  purity  of  her  tran- 
sient life  and  the  loveliness  of  her  faith  sanctify  her 
martyred  beauty.  She,  too,  beholds,  in  prophetic 
vision,  the  work  of  her  hands  in  time — in  cities  and 
in  States  that  are  and  are  to  come ;  in  freedom,  full, 
complete,  enduring,  yet  to  be  achieved — beholds,  and 
is  content. 

And  she  is  dead.  Dead  f  Thank  God  she  is 
dead !  Lifted  high  above  all  hap  of  chance  or 


THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  GENTLEMAN.  55 

change ;  safe,  for  ever  safe  from  soil,  or  taint,  or 
blight,  or  blame — throned  in  uncontaminable  ether, 
the  virgin  mother  of  peoples,  immaculate,  immortal. 
Virginia  !  our  mother,  our  own  mother,  if  we  for- 
get thee — if  we  ever  forget  thee — may  our  souls  be 
forgotten  of  their  God. 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 


A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  LATE  EDITOE  OF  THE  KICHMOND  EXAMINEE. 


PKEFACE. 

In  December,  1867,  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Latch - 
Key"  in  the  Native  Virginian,  I  visited  the  city  of  Richmond, 
and,  while  there,  was  convinced  that  I  had  made,  unwittingly,  two 
decided  errors:  First,  John  M.  Daniel  did  not  write  "The  Par- 
liament of  Beasts."  The  real  author  is  known,  but  his  name  is 
withheld  for  sufficient  reasons.  Second,  the  walk  to  Petersburg 
was  made,  not  for  the  purpose  of  lending,  but  of  paying  money 
which  the  Editor  of  the  Examiner  had  collected  for  his  friend, 
the  then  artist  Peticolas.  This  I  learned  from  the  diary  which 
Daniel  kept  at  that  time,  and  which  Mr.  T.  H.  Wynne  has  now  in 
his  possession.  In  respect  of  other  matters  of  fact,  I  believe  the 
Memoir  is  substantially  correct. 

February  18,  1868. 

SOME  days  ago  I  found,  in  an  old  drawer,  the 
latch-key  which  the  editor  of  the  Richmond  Ex- 
aminer gave  me  in  1863.  It  fitted  the  door  of  the 
house  on  Broad  street,  opposite  the  African  church — 
the  house  in  which  he  died.  A  bit  of  brass,  differing 
in  nothing  from  others  of  its  kind,  this  key,  never- 
theless, has  its  charm.  It  is*  the  only  souvenir  I  have 
of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  Virginia  ever  pro- 
duced. Coming  upon  it  unexpectedly,  after  I  had 
given  it  up  as  lost,  the  bare  sight  of  it  crowded  my 


57 

mind,  in  an  instant,  with  pictures  of  its  former  owner. 
I  saw  him  in  Washington,  just  after  his  return  from 
Europe,  conversing  with  Seddon  and  Garnett ;  in  his 
own  room  over  the  Examiner  office,  as  he  sat  lord- 
like,  in  a  high  arm-chair,  in  August,  1861,  question- 
ing me  about  the  battle  of  Manassas  and  exhibiting 
;the  major's  uniform  which  he  intended  to  wear  as 
aid  to  General  Floyd ;  in  the  editorial  room,  cutting 
and  slashing  leaders  which  had  been  written  for  him, 
or  denouncing  fiercely  the  Administration;  at  his 
dinner-table,  pledging  Wigfall  and  Hughes  in  a  glass 
of  old  Madeira ;  in  the  bed,  where  he  lay  wounded, 
after  the  duel  with  Elmore ;  and  last  of  all,  I  saw  his 
marble  face — how  changed  !  as  he  lay  in  his  metallic 
coffin,  March  the  31st,  1865. 

All  these  likenesses  of  this  strange  man  came  viv- 
idly before  me  as  I  looked  at  the  key  of  his  door, 
and  with  them  came  a  host  of  recollections,  some  of 
which  I  am  now  about  to  set  down.  Not  that  I  have 
anything  to  tell  which  others  could  not  tell  as  well, 
or  better  than  myself.  For  it  must  not  be  inferred, 
because  he  gave  me  the  privilege  of  entering  his 
house  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  that  pleased 
me,  that  I  was  the  intimate  personal  friend  of  John 
M.  Daniel.  No ;  he  took  a  short-lived  fancy  to  me, 
and  gave  me  his  latch-key ;  that  is  all.  While  the 
fancy  lasted  I  used  the  key  but  seldom,  and  after  it 
died  out,  not  at  all.  Doubtless  he  soon  forgot  that  he 
had  ever  given  it  to  me.  My  aim  is  simply  to  put 
down,  in  chronological  order,  a  number  of  incidents 
,and  sayings  illustrative  of  the  character  of  one  who. 


58 

in  some  respects,  resembled  John  Randolph,  of 
Roanoke,  and  who,  like  Randolph,  was  of  a  nature 
so  peculiar  that  the  most  trivial  reminiscences  can 
hardly  fail  to  prove  interesting  to  hundreds  of 
thousands  in  the  South,  and  to  not  a  few  in  the 
North. 

My  acquaintance  with  him  began  in  Washington,, 
after  his  return  from  Turin.  He  registered  his  name 
at  Brown's  Hotel,  in  a  small  hand,  simply  as  "Mr. 
Daniel,  Liverpool."  Although  I  had  never  seen  a 
scrap  of  his  writing,  I  knew,  the  moment  I  saw  his 
name  on  the  register,  that  the  man  for  whom  so 
many  were  anxiously  looking,  had  arrived.  The  next 
evening  I  was  introduced  to  him.  I  had  long  been, 
curious  to  see  "  the  great  editor,"  and  availing  myself 
of  his  animated  conversation  with  other  visitors,  eyed 
him  intently,  seeking  in  the  outward  man  some  indi- 
cation of  the  extraordinary  being  within.  My  search 
was  not  in  vain.  The  poorest  physiognomist  could 
not  have  seen  Daniel's  face,  even  for  a  moment,  with- 
out being  attracted — I  am  tempted  to  say  fascinated 
— by  it.  True,  we  always  find  what  we  are  taught 
to  expect  in  a  face,  and  often  discover  what  does  not 
exist ;  but  here  was  a  countenance  singularly  marked 
— a  dark,  refined,  decidedly  Jewish  face.  The  nose 
was  not  very  large,  and  but  slightly  aquiline;  the- 
mouth  thin-lipped,  wide,  unpleasing,  and  overhung 
by  a  heavy  black  moustache ;  the  chin  square,  but  not 
prominent;  the  cheeks  thin;  and  both  cheeks  and 
chin  covered  by  a  dense,  coarse,  jet-black,  closely- 
trimmed  beard;  eye-brows  very  thick  and  black, 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY.  5£ 

shading  deep-set,  rather  small  hazel  eyes;  head  as 
small  as  Byron's  or  Brougham's,  beautifully  shaped 
and  surmounted  by  masses  of  hair,  which  in  youth 
hung  long  and  lank  and  black  to  his  coat-collar,  but 
in  later  life  was  worn  close-cut.  Such  was  John  M. 
Daniel,  as  he  sat  before  me  in  a  room  at  Brown's 
Hotel,  in  the  memorable  winter  of  1861. 

He  was  richly  but  plainly  dressed.  He  talked 
freely  upon  the  topics  then  uppermost  in  every 
Southern  mind,  but  there  was  a  hesitation,  or  rather 
a  tripping,  amounting  almost  to  a  stammer,  in  his 
speech — the  result,  probably,  of  his  long  residence 
abroad  and  the  constant  use,  in  conversation,  of 
French  or  Italian  instead  of  the  English  language. 
This  tripping  had  entirely  disappeared  when  I  met 
him,  a  few  months  later,  in  Richmond.  It  was  not 
an  affectation,  as  I  had  at  first  supposed. 

During  a  number  of  interviews  which  I  had  with 
him  in  Washington,  he  was  always  courteous,  good 
natured  and  talkative.  His  moroseness,  his  bitter- 
ness, of  which  I  had  heard  so  much,  seemed  to 
have  been  dissipated  by  the  genial  climate  of  Italy 
and  the  polite  atmosphere  of  courts.  One  night, 
however,  Floyd's  name  being  mentioned  in  con- 
nection with  the  affair  of  the  Indian  Trust  Bonds, 
some  reckless  person  took  it  upon  himself  to  say  that 
in  the  public  opinion  the  then  Secretary  of  War  was 
"  no  better  than  a  thief."  Daniel  flamed  instantly. 
He  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  white  face  and  with 
trembling  lips,  and  denounced  the  charge  against 
Gov.  Floyd  as  an  accursed  slander.  In  proof  that 


Floyd  had  not  appropriated  to  his  own  use  one  cent 
of  the  public  funds,  he  stated  a  fact,  not  to  be  men- 
tioned here,  which  seemed  to  carry  conviction  to  all 
who  heard  it.  He  was  very  much  agitated ;  his  pas- 
.sionate  nature  so  overmastered  him  that  he  could  not, 
although  he  tried  to  resume  his  calmness,  and  the 
party  soon  dispersed  from  the  room. 

During  his  .stay  in  Washington,  which  lasted  two  or 
three  weeks,  I  met  him  but  once  after  this  exciting 
scene.  He  was  then  in  Mr.  Seddon's  room,  convers- 
ing with  that  distinguished  member  of  the  Peace 
Congress,  and  with  the  Hon.  M.  R.  H.  Garnett. 
Late  English  publications,  relating  to  Continental 
and  British  politics,  were  under  discussion,  and 
Daniel  showed  himself  perfectly  familiar  with  every 
book  or  pamphlet  which  the  other  gentleman  had 
read.  Little  was  said  so  long  as  I  was  present  about 
Federal  politics.  It  cannot,  however,  be  doubted 
that  the  Yirginia  editor  was  in  the  intimate  counsels 
of  the  leaders  of  the  southern  movement,  and  that, 
while  he  gave  them  the  benefit  of  his  eminently  clear 
intellect,  he  in  turn  was  enabled  by  their  information 
and  opinions  to  post  himself  thoroughly  on  all  those 
points  which  were  shortly  to  be  brought  before  the 
public  in  the  columns  of  the  improved  and,  for  the 
first  time,  Daily  Examiner. 

The  potent  influence  of  this  paper,  from  the  mo- 
ment that  Daniel  resumed  the  helm,  was  felt  not  only 
in  Yirginia,  but  throughout  the  entire  South.  To 
this  day,  the  effect  of  a  single  article,  which  appeared 
&  few  weeks  after  the  Examiner  began  to  be  issued 


61 

daily,  is  remembered  by  almost  every  man,  woman 
and  child  in  Virginia.  I  allude,  of  course,  to  "  The 
Parliament  of  Beasts/'  in  which  the  members  of  the 
Virginia  Convention,  then  in  session,  were  likened 
to  dogs,  cats,  owls,  opossums,  and  other  members  of 
the  animal  kingdom.  The  likenesses  were  so  hap- 
pily and  so  trenchantly  drawn  that  it  was  impossible 
to  mistake  them,  and  many  hundreds,  if  not  thou- 
sands, of  copies  of  the  issue  containing  the  article 
were  sold  in  a  few  hours.  Some  offence  was  given, 
but  so  much  humor,  and  wit  so  genuine  were  min- 
gled with  the  satire,  that  the  Union  men,  who  were 
most  offended,  were  obliged  to  join  in  the  laugh  at 
their  own  caricatures.  "  Who  is  the  author  ?"  was 
in  everybody's  mouth.  This  question  was  never  sat- 
isfactorily answered.  The  article  appeared  as  a  con- 
tribution, but  in  editorial  type,  and  the  great  major- 
ity of  people  suspected  that  Daniel  himself  was  the 
author.  This,  however,  was  denied,  and  many  con- 
jectures were  made  as  to  the  man,  in  or  out  of  Vir- 
ginia, who  was  capable  of  doing  so  clever  a  thing. 
Two  years  or  more  after  its  appearance,  while  sitting 
alone  with  Daniel,  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  in  confi- 
dence who  the  real  author  was.  He  was  pacing  the 
floor  of  his  sanctum,  as  was  his  wont.  He  stopped 
abruptly,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  turned  his 
face  towards  me  and  said,  with  the  utmost  gravity : 

"  No  one  knows  better  than  yourself  who  wrote 
that  article." 

"Nonsense,"  I  replied;  " I  really  want  to  know. 
Tell  me.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  never 


62 

reveal  the  secret  until  you  give  me  permission  to  do 

.60." 

lie  looked  keenly  at  me,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether 
I  could  be  trusted,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  sure  that 
lie  was  going  to  tell  me ;  but  turning  suddenly  on  his 
heel,  he  began  again  to  pace  the  floor  in  silence.  He 
refused  to  tell  me  even  the  author  of  the  paraphrase 
in  verse,  which  appeared  some  time  after  the  original. 
I  have  scarcely  a  doubt  but  that  he  himself  wrote  the 
original  in  prose,  and  I  think  I  can  make  a  very  good 
guess  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  poetic  version.  The 
latter  I  attribute  to  the  same  hand  which  penned 
"Fie!  Memminger,"  and  similar  articles  in  rhyme, 
which  were  printed  in  the  Examiner  during  the  years 
1864-'65. 

In  May,  1861,  I  went  to  Manassas  with  the  first 
battalion  sent  thither  from  Richmond.  No  sooner 
was  I  upon  the  ground  than  I  felt,  as  by  prescience, 
rather  than  by  any  comprehension  of  the  strategic 
value  of  the  position,  that  the  place  was  to  be  the 
scene  of  a  great  battle ;  and  shortly  afterwards,  with 

the  aid  of  my  friend,  Lieut.  L ,  embodied  my 

views  and  apprehensions  in  an  article  of  considerable 
length,  which  I  sent  to  the  Examiner — no  order  to 
the  contrary  having  then  been  issued.  Daniel 
thought  it  imprudent  to  publish  the  article,  but  was 
so  pleased  with  it  that  he  continued  to  send  me,  as 
long  as  I  remained  at  Manassas,  five  copies  of  his 
daily  paper.  He  also  offered  me  my  own  price  for 
any  letters  I  might  choose  to  write  him.  Even  had 
it  been  lawful,  I  could  not  have  accepted  his  propo- 


63 

-sition,  for  the  reason  that  the  fatigues  of  incessant 
drilling  left  me  little  inclination  and  less  ability  to 
write  even  to  my  own  father.  But  the  prompt 
recognition  of  the  little  service  I  had  rendered  him 
— a  promptness  which,  as  I  afterwards  discovered, 
was  characteristic  of  Daniel — and  doubtless  a  good 
deal  of  gratified  vanity  at  the  estimate  he  had  placed 
on  my  contribution,  impelled  me  to  call  on  him  as 
soon  as  I  reached  Richmond,  in  August,  after  the 
great  battle. 

He  was  then  living  in  two  rooms,  handsomely 
fitted  up,  in  the  second  story  of  the  Examiner  build- 
ing. The  front  room  he  used  as  a  bed  chamber,  the 
back  room  as  a  sanctum  and  a  hall  of  audience  for 
his  many  visitors.  In  the  latter  were  a  number  of 
easy  chairs;  and  one  in  particular,  which  he  pre- 
ferred above  all  the  rest.  It  was  a  sort  of  barber's 
chair,  covered  with  horse  hair,  and  elevated  much 
more  than  ordinary  chairs  above  the  floor.  From 
this  seat,  as  from  a  throne,  he  looked  down  upon 
and  conversed  with  his  visitors;  and  to  me  at  least, 
(I  know  not  how  it  was  with  others,)  his  words  de- 
scended from  their  elevation  with  a  certain  authority, 
as  from  a  true  cathedra. 

The  day  was  warm,  and  the  editorial  Pontiff  was 
by  no  means  in  his  robes  of  office.  He  wore  neither 
coat  nor  vest,  only  a  pair  of  white  duck  pantaloons. 
He  looked  spotlessly  clean,  cool  and  comfortable. 
His  reception  was  kind,  almost  to  cordiality.  He 
talked  freely  about  the  war,  about  the  generals,  and 
the  plans  of  campaign,  but  was  very  guarded  in  his 


64: 

comments  upon  the  Administration,  which,  up  to 
this  time,  he  had  heartily  supported.  Indeed,  the 
Examiner  was,  for  many  months  after  the  war  began, 
regarded  as  the  organ  of  the  Administration.  Full 
of  his  expected  campaign  with  Floyd,  he  told  me, 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  how  he  intended  to  be 
comfortable  and  to  escape  the  tilth  and  misery  of 
camp  life.  He  was  going  en  grand  tenue — with  a 
chest  stored  with  the  good  things  of  this  life,  a  tent 
of  his  own  fashioning,  a  complete  cooking  apparatus, 
his  own  cook  and  his  own  valet. 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  no  fear  of  being  killed  or 
wounded.  He  replied  that  he  did  not  think  he 
would  be  killed,  and  that  the  chances  were  that  he 
would  not  be  wounded.  "I  hate  pain,"  said  he;  "I. 
cannot  bear  it,  and  yet  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
show  an  honorable  scar  in  this  cause."  His  cam- 
paign in  southwestern  Virginia  was  not  of  long 
duration.  I  am  satisfied,  from  what  he  afterwards 
told  me,  that  he  joined  Gen.  Floyd,  not  for  a  holiday, 
but  with  the  purpose  of  winning  military  glory.  He 
was  ambitious  in  everything  he  undertook,  and  on: 
more  than  one  occasion  he  expressed  to  me  a  great 
regret  at  having  left  the  army.  "By  this  time," 
(the  winter  of  1864,)  said  he,  "I  might  have  been  a 
brigadier — perhaps  a  major-general." 

"But,"  said  I,  "as  the  editor  of  the  Examiner, ' 
you  are  exerting  an  influence  far  greater  than  any 
brigadier — greater  perhaps  than  any  major-general." 

"  True,"  he  answered ;  "  but  what  good  is  the  Ex- 
aminer, or  any  other  paper,  or  all  the  papers  in  the 


65 

Confederacy  combined,  doing?     Besides,  I  like  to 
command  men.     I  love  power." 

After  the  interview  in  August,  1861,  I  saw  very 
little  of  him  for  two  years.  I  met  him  occasionally 
on  the  street,  but  his  manner  was  so  repelling  that  I 
was  deterred  from  gratifying  the  desire,  which  I  often 
felt,  of  going  to  see  him.  With  his  old  habits  had 
come  back  his  old  ways — he  was  as  cold,  self-con- 
tained and  gloomy  as  he  had  been  before  he  went  to 
Europe.  Affairs  were  not  going  in  the  fashion  that 
suited  him.  Grave  doubts  were  beginning  to  arise 
in  his  mind.  He  still  had  hopes,  and  often  high 
hopes,  of  the  success  of  the  cause,  but  the  course  of 
the  Administration  excited  continually  the  bitterness 
of  his  nature.  Then,  again,  the  whole  weight  of  the 
Examiner,  which,  he  frequently  described  to  me  "  as 
a  mill-stone  about  his  neck,'1  was  upon  him.  Con- 
vinced that  his  editorial  labors  were  well  nigh  use- 
less, in  so  far  as  they  influenced  the  conduct  of  the 
war,  the  finances,  or  anything  else  pertaining  to  the 
policy  of  Mr.  Davis,  it  was  but  natural  that  his 
mental  energies  should  flag  and  his  wonderful  powers 
of  composition  should  be  abated.  He  was  anxious 
to  get  an  assistant,  but  could  find  no  one  to  suit  him. 
He  had  fallen  out  with  one  whose  brilliant  and 
humorous  pen  had  served  him  so  well  in  former 
years.  Edward  A.  Pollard  was  in  ill  health,  and 
had  started,  or  was  about  to  start,  for  Europe,  and 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  the  two  or  three 
writers,  whose  contributions,  a  few  months  later,, 
5 


66 

added  so  greatly  to  the  value  and  the  interest  of  the 
Examiner. 

It  was  at  this  time,  in  the  summer  of  1863,  while 
on  a  visit  to  the  country,  that  I  amused  myself  one 
evening  by  writing  a  satirical  article  on  the  then 
exciting  subject  of  the  removal  of  the  Quartermaster 
General.  This  I  sent  to  Daniel.  What  was  my  sur- 
prise by  return  mail,  to  receive  from  B.  F.  Walker, 
the  manager  of  the  Examiner,  a  flattering  letter, 
telling  me  of  Daniel's  high  appreciation  of  my  article, 
and  his  desire  to  secure  my  services  as  assistant  edi- 
tor. An  engagement  on  another  paper  prevented 
me  from  accepting  the  proffered  situation ;  moreover 
I  knew  well  that  Daniel  was  a  "  hard  master."  Never- 
theless, I  was  anxious  to  see  in  print  an  article  which 
had  received  the  approval  of  such  a  critic  as  John  M. 
Daniel.  I  looked  each  day,  but  never  saw  it.  I 
own  that  I  felt  chagrined.  My  only  conclusion  was 
that  Daniel,  at  a  first  reading,  had  overestimated  the 
merits  of  the  article,  and  that  a  subsequent  perusal, 
revealing  faults  which  he  had  not  before  detected, 
had  determined  him  not  to  publish  it. 

On  my  return  to  Richmond,  I  felt  little  desire  to 
meet  any  of  the  Examiner  people ;  but  passing  Walker 
one  day  on  the  street,  he  hailed  me  and  told  me  to 
come  to  the  office;  he  had  some  money  for  me. 

"Money  for  what?"  I  inquired. 

"  For  that  article  you  sent  down.  Don't  you  re- 
member it?" 

"I  remember  it  distinctly,  but  I  also  remember 
that  you  never  printed  it." 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY.  67 

Walker  was  positive  that  the  article  had  been 
printed,  and  I  no  less  positive  that  it  had  not.  Finally 
he  referred  me  to  Mr.  Daniel,  and  to  him,  accord- 
ingly, I  went.  He  received  me  kindly,  compli- 
mented my  article  extravagantly,  as  I  thought,  and 
asked  me  if  Walker  had  paid  me  for  it.  I  was  a 
good  deal  nettled,  supposing  that  he  was  making  fun 
of  me.  I  told  him  in  reply,  that  Walker  had  offered 
to  pay  me  much  more  than  the  article  was  worth,  ac- 
cording to  the  established  rates  of  the  Examiner 
(which  I  knew),  but  that  I  had  refused  payment  on 
the  ground  that  the  article  had  never  appeared.  His 
eye  twinkled  mischievously,  as  he  said : 

"  You  didn't  see  it,  because  you  didn't  read  the 
Examiner.  The  Examiner  contains  the  best  thoughts 
of  the  best  minds  in  the  Confederacy,  expressed  in 
the  best  manner — it  is  the  organ  of  the  thinking 
gentlemen  of  the  country.  You  ought  by  all  means 
to  read  it.  There  is  the  file ;  look  at  the  number  for 
,  and  you  will  find  your  article." 

I  looked,  and  sure  enough,  there  was  an  article 
twice  as  long  and  twice  as  good  as  the  one  I  had 
written — my  own  ideas,  but  so  enveloped  in  Daniel's 
fine  English,  and  so  amplified  that  it  was  hard  to  re- 
cognize them. 

I  have  purposely  related  this  incident  at  some 
length,  because  it  illustrates  Daniel's  character  and 
unfolds  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  great  success  as  an 
editor.  He  begrudged  no  labor  in  elaborating  and 
improving  an  article  which  pleasedrhim.  I  remem- 
ber his  telling  me  that  he  had  written  a  certain 


68 

article  over  four  or  five  times.  The  original  draft 
was  sent  to  him  by  a  lady  distinguished  for  her  at- 
tainments and  performances  in  literature.  It  was  a 
defence  of  his  favorite  general.  He  was  gallant  to 
a  degree  and  the  warmest  of  partisans ;  and  both  his 
gallantry  and  his  friendship  being  aroused,  he  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost  to  make  the  article  as  printed 
a  telling  one.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  I  have  this 
identical  article  now  in  my  possession.  It  is  headed,, 
O he!  jam.  satis. 

Although  I  would  not  accept  the  place  of  assis- 
tant, and  could  by  no  means  have  filled  it  to  his 
satisfaction  if  I  had,  I  was  glad  enough,  in  order  to 
eke  out  my  narrow  living,  to  enter  into  an  engage- 
ment to  furnish  him  with  two  or  three  editorials  a 
week — an  engagement  which  lasted  for  several 
months.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  gave  me  his 
latch-key  and  I  became  somewhat  intimate  with  him. 
I  made  many  visits  to  him  at  his  house  on  Broad 
street ;  and  had  many  talks  with  him  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects.  He  was  not  a  secretive  man  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  conversed  with  the  utmost  freedom  about 
himself,  his  early  life,  his  residence  abroad,  his  re- 
latives and  friends,  his  political  associates  and  op- 
ponents, indeed  almost  everything.  Unless  he  hap- 
pened to  be  out  of  humor  (which  was  not  often  the 
case  at  his  private  residence),  he  loved  to  talk;  and 
though  a  recluse,  he  was  delighted  with  the  visits  of 
gentlemen  who  came  without  solicitation  on  his  part 
and  who  called  in  a  friendly  and  social  way.  He 
urged  me  to  visit  him  at  night,  and  in  order  to  tempt 


69 

me  to  repeat  my  visits  would  give  me  each  time 
what  was  then  a  great  and  costly  treat,  a  bottle  of 
English  ale.  This  he  repeated  several  times,  but 
finding  that  I  did  not  play  chess  and  was  a  much 
better  listener  than  talker,  in  fact,  that  I  could  not 
talk  well  enough  to  provoke  him  to  talk,  he  soon  be- 
came tired  of  my  visits — a  fact  of  which  he  gave  me 
convincing  proof  by  yawning  in  my  face  ! 

This  house  on  Broad  street  and  his  mode  of  living 
deserve  notice.  The  house  was  of  brick,  three  stories 
high,  commodious  and  comfortable.  It  was  one  of 
a  number  of  investments  in  real  estate  which  he 
made  during  the  war.  Although  no  human  being 
but  himself  inhabited  this  house — the  servants  being 
restricted  to  the  kitchen  of  four  rooms  in  the  back- 
yard— he  lived,  literally,  all  over  it.  The  front  room 
on  the  first  floor  was  his  parlor.  In  it  were  two 
large  oil  paintings,  works  of  decided  merit,  a  mosaic 
chess  table  and  a  few  mahogany  chairs.  Sometimes 
he  received  his  visitors  in  the  parlor,  but  more  often 
in  the  dining-room  adjoining,  where  he  kept  a  table 
for  writing  and  his  iron  safe.  A  handsome  side- 
board and  a  set  of  solid  dining  tables  of  antique 
pattern  graced  this  apartment.  He  was  fond  of  telling 
that  these  tables  once  belonged  to  "  old  Memminger," 
and  were  bought  when  the  worthy  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury  broke  up  house-keeping  on  Church  Hill. 
The  front  room  in  the  second-story  was  his  chamber, 
and  the  passage-room  adjoining,  his  dressing  closet. 
A  tall  miror,  which  reached  from  the  floor  almost  to 
the  ceiling,  was  fastened  to  the  wall  between  the  two 


70  JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 

front  windows.  Hard  by  was  a  large  cheval  glass,  by 
means  of  which  he  w^as  enabled  to  see  his  whole  figure, 
front  and  rear,  from  head  to  foot.  He  was  not  a 
fop,  but  he  was  fond  of  dress,  and  had  an  eye  to  ap- 
pearance, not  only  in  person,  but  in  print.  He  had 
a  horror  of  slovenliness.  A  carelessly  written  edi- 
torial was  his  abomination.  He  used  to  say  that  a 
man  who  goes  into  print  ought  to  remember  that  he 
is  making  his  appearance  before  the  very  best  society, 
and  that  he  owes  it  both  to  himself  and  to  that  society 
not  to  appear  in  undress.  When  an  acquaintance  of 
the  writer  of  this  article  was  married  in  church,  one 
February  afternoon  in  1863,  John  M.  Daniel  was- 
there  in  a  long-tail  coat  and  white  waistcoat.  He 
believed  in  white  waistcoats.  He  told  his  manager, 
Walker,  that  he  ought  never  to  go  to  a  part}'  with- 
out wearing  a  white  vest. 

"  But,  Mr.  Daniel,"  objected  Walker,  "  suppose  a 
man  hasn't  got  a  white  vest  and  is  too  poor,  these 
war  times,  to  buy  one?" 

"  D — n  it !  sir,  let  him  stay  at  home." 
Besides  the  mirror,  the  cheval  glass  and  a  few 
chairs,  there  was  no  other  furniture  in  his  chamber, 
except  an  old-fashioned  high-post  bedstead,  which, 
together  with  most  of  his  furniture,  he  had  bought 
at  the  sales  of  the  effects  of  refugees  once  wealthy. 
He  believed  in  blood,  in  families  of  ancient  and 
honorable  descent,  in  gentlemen,  and  preferred  the 
workmanship  and  antiquated  style  of  things  which 
had  descended  as  heirlooms  in  the  houses  of  gentle- 
men to  the  costliest  and  most  tasteful  productions  of 


71- 

modern  cabinet-makers.  There  was  no  carpet  on  the 
floor  of  his  chamber,  and  he  slept  without  a  fire.  In 
the  morning  a  fire  was  built  in  the  room  next  to  his 
chamber,  and  there  his  breakfast  was  generally  served 
between  11  and  12  o'oclock.  He  seldom  went  to 
bed  before  2  or  3  o'clock  in  the  morning.  This 
back  room  in  the  second-story  had  a  bed  in  it  and 
was  used  as  a  guest  chamber,  but  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  known  or  heard  of  but  one  occupant — R.  W. 
Hughes.  He  made  Daniel's  house  his  home  when- 
ever he  came  to  town. 

Adjoining  the  dressing-room,  in  the  passage  of  the 
second  floor,  was  the  bath-room.  Leaning  against 
the  door  of  this  bath-room  I  used  to  see  a  bag  of 
Java  coffee,  which  made  my  mouth  water  every  time 
I  looked  at  it,  for  coffee,  in  those  days,  was  twenty 
to  thirty  dollars  a  pound. 

The  first  room  in  the  third  story  was  used  as  a  sort 
of  lumber  room.  A  barrel  or  two  of  white  sugar,  a 
few  boxes  of  manufactured  tobacco,  and  some  large 
empty  boxes,  which  had  contained  books,  were  there 
the  last  time  I  looked  in.  The  little  room,  cut  off  from 
the  passage,  was  the  library.  The  number  of  books 
was  not  what  one  would  have  expected.  A  complete 
set  of  Voltaire's  works ;  the  Delphin  edition  of  the 
classics,  complete;  Swift's  Works,  Clarendon's  Re- 
bellion, and  a  few  miscellaneous  books  are  all  that  I 
can  now  recall.  Most,  if  not  all,  of  these  editions 
were  old  and  rare ;  and  strange  to  tell,  most  of  them 
were  bought  at  private  sale  or  at  auction  during  the 
war.  Daniel  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  but  had  a 


•72 

sovereign  contempt  for  the  so-called  "literature  of 
the  day."  The  first  Xapoleon,  riding  post  in  his  car- 
riage to  the  theatre  of  war,  amused  himself  by  dip- 
ping into  books  just  published  and  pitching  one  after 
another  out  of  the  window.  This  was  much  the  way 
with  John  M.  Daniel,  before  he  went  abroad,  when, 
in  his  capacity  as  editor  of  the  Examiner,  all  the 
new  publications  were  sent  to  him.  He  never  cared 
to  keep  them — either  gave  or  threw  them  away,  and 
if  he  had  occasion  to  make  an  extract  from  one  of 
them,  used  his  scissors  remorselessly. 

The  back  room,  in  the  third  story,  was  a  favorite 
one  with  him.  Like  all  the  other  rooms,  it  was  taste- 
fully and  cheerfully  papered.  It  commanded  a  view 
of  James  river,  the  hills  of  Henrico,  and  the  wide 
lowlands  and  woods  of  Chesterfield.  Having  a 
southern  exposure,  there  was  always  plenty  of  light 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  room  was  easily  made  warm 
and  comfortable.  Here  he  loved  to  sit  in  a  leather- 
bottomed  chair,  with  a  little  table  near  him,  reading 
Voltaire,  the  Latin  poets,  or  contributions  and  com- 
munications to  the  Examiner.  In  this  room  he  kept 
his  collection  of  medals  and  seals ;  a  violin  lay  in  its 
wooden  case  on  the  floor,  stringless  and  unused.  A 
moody  man,  he  sometimes  deserted  this  pleasant 
room  and  confined  himself  for  weeks  to  the  rooms 
on  the  lower  floors. 

He  lived  well,  but  not  luxuriously.  He  detested 
hotels  and  boarding-houses.  When  he  lived  in  rooms 
over  his  office,  he  had  his  meals  sent  to  him  by  Tom 
Griffin  or  Zetelle.  After  he  went  to  house-keeping, 


73 

his  negro  cook  was  his  caterer.  The  day  I  dined  at 
his  house  with  Wigfall  and  Hughes,  he  had  but  one 
course,  a  single  joint  of  meat,  a  few  vegetables,  no 
dessert,  coffee  and  wine — Madeira  from  Gov.  Floyd's 
cellar,  which  Hughes  had  brought  with  him.  That 
evening  he  called  for  "  another  bottle,"  after  the  rest 
were  satisfied ;  but  I  never  saw  him  intoxicated,  and 
on  one  occasion  only  under  the  influence  of  wine 
even  in  a  slight  degree.  Then  his  eyes  were  a  little 
glassy,  his  manner  dogmatic,  and  he  rocked  a  little 
as  he  stood  up  in  front  of  me  and  laid  down  the  law 
in  regard  to  things  political.  Whiskey  he  hated  with 
his  whole  heart.  I  have  heard  him  curse  it  and  its 
effects  most  bitterly,  and  once  wrote,  at  his  special 
request,  an  article  beginning,  ''Whiskey,  not  the 
Yankee,  is  to  be  the  master  of  the  Confederacy." 
The  feebleness  of  his  digestion  compelled  him  to  be 
temperate  both  in  eating  and  drinking.  I  have  heard 
him  say  that  a  single  glass  of  whiskey  and  water 
taken  at  night,  by  prescription  of  his  physician, 
would  give  him  headache  the  next  day. 

Coffee  was  his  favorite  stimulant,  but.  I  do  not 
think  he  used  it  to  excess.  He  was  so  fond  of  it 
that  he  would  not  rest  until  he  had  taught  his  pet  ter- 
riers to  drink  it.  These  dogs — "  Frank"  and  "  Fan- 
ny" were  their  names,  I  believe — he  loved,  but  in 
his  own  fashion.  He  delighted  in  teasing  and  wor- 
rying them ;  would  pinch  and  pull  their  ears  until 
they  yelped  with  pain,  and  was  never  more  pleased 
than  when  he  succeeded  in  getting  up  a  mild  fight 
between  them.  This  was  not  easy  to  do,  because 


74  JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 

"Fanny"  was  "Frank's"  mother;  and,  when  he  was 
set  upon  her,  went  to  work  with  rather  a  bad  grace, 
while  she  bore  his  attacks  with  exemplary  patience. 
When  Daniel  got  tired  of  playing  with  his  pets,  who 
were  devoted  to  him,  he  would  drive  them  away 
with  his  horsewhip.  Yet  he  never  laid  on  with  the 
full  weight  of  his  hand.  He  was  cruel  to  them  at 
times,  but  never  brutal. 

I  asked  him  one  day  if  his  solitary  mode  of  life 
did  not  make  him  suffer  from  ennui.  "Yes,"  said 
he,  wearily,  "but  I  am  used  to  it." 

"  Don't  you  find  solitary  feeding  injurious  to  your 
health?  I  tried  it  once  at  college,  and,  within  a 
week,  I  was  made  positively  sick  by  it." 

"You  are  right,"  he  replied.  "It  literally  de- 
stroys the  appetite.  In  Turin,  I  employed  an  Italian 
count  as  my  chef  de  cusine.  He  was  really  an  artist 
in  his  profession,  and  exerted  all  his  powers  to  please 
me.  He  had  carte  'blanche  as  to  expense,  and  sent 
me  up  every  day  the  most  tempting  dishes.  I  could 
taste  them — that  was  all.  I  never  enjoyed  a  meal 
at  home.  Whereas,  when  invited  to  dine  in  the 
country  with  a  pleasant  party  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men— would  you  believe  it? — I  would  sometimes  be 
helped  three  times  to  meat." 

I  asked  him  then,  as  I  had  often  done  before,  why 
he  did  not  marry.  He  wa&  always  pleased  when  the 
subject  was  broached,  and  I  am  sure  we  must  have 
had,  first  and  last,  a  dozen  conversations  on  this  topic 
alone.  After  discussing  the  pros  and  cons,  he 
generally  wound  up  by  declaring  that,  if  he  ever 


married,  it  must  be  with  the  explicit  understanding 
that  himself  and  his  wife  should  occupy  separate 
houses.  To  this  end,  he  often  threatened  to  buy  the 
house  next  to  his  own  and  have  a  door  cut  in  the 
partition  wall,  the  key  of  which  he  would  keep  in 
his  own  pocket.  "The  noise  of  children  and  the 
gabble  of  a  woman  with  her  lady  friends  was  some- 
thing which  he  could  not  and  would  not  stand." 

He  was  a  warm  admirer  of  the  female  sex,  but 
his  opinion  of  them  was  not  the  most  exalted.  Social 
life  on  the  Continent  did  not  tend  to  weaken  his 
natural  prejudice  against  mankind,  and  probably 
lessened  his  esteem  for  the  fairer  portion  of  human- 
ity. Over  the  mantle-shelf  in  his  chamber  hung  an 
exquisite  miniature  on  ivory.  The  face  was,  beyond 
question,  the  most  beautiful  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
the  execution  was  worthy  of  the  subject.  This  pic- 
ture was  presented  to  him  by  the  lady  who  painted 
it,  and  it  was  her  own  likeness.  According  to  his 
account,  she  was  titled,  rich,  marvellously  accom- 
plished in  music,  painting  and  poetry,  eccentric,  reck- 
less alike  of  herself  and  of  others.  Her  name  he 
would  never  tell  me.  He  confessed  to  other  fancies 
while  in  Europe,  but  did  not  acknowledge,  and  I  be- 
lieve did  not  have,  a  serious  affair  during  the  whole 
seven  years  of  his  residence  abroad.  It  is  said  that 
his  heart  was  never  touched  but  once,  and  then  by 
a  beautiful  Yirginian.  This  was  before  he  left 
America.  He  told  me  frequently  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  love  a  girl  who  was  not  pretty, 
and  yet  he  would  shudder  at  the  thought  of  uniting. 


76 

himself  to  "  a  pretty  fool."  It  was  to  no  purpose 
that  I  insisted  that  true  beauty  was  of  the  soul  alone. 
He  hooted  at  this  doctrine  as  "  a  stale  lie."  Beauty 
of  face  he  might  possibly  dispense  with,  but  beauty 
of  form — beauty  of  some  sort — a  graceful  figure  and 
high-bred  manner  were  absolutely  essential.  Hap- 
pening, one  evening,  to  express  in  his  hearing  my 
regret  that  I  was  not  acquainted  with  some  young- 
lady  in  Richmond  who  played  well  on  the  piano, 
he  started  almost  as  if  I  had  stabbed  him,  and  gave 
vent  to  an  exclamation  of  the  most  intense  disgust 
—as  if  the  bare  idea  of  a  piano-playing  young  lady 
nauseated  him.  His  theory  about  the  management 
of  women  was  simple  and  original.  "  There  are," 
he  would  say,  "  but  two  ways  to  manage  a  woman — 
to  club  her  or  to  freeze  her." 

His  menage  in  1863— '4  consisted  of  three  servants, 
all  males — a  cook,  an  ostler  and  a  valet,  who  also 
acted  as  his  dining-room  servant.  His  manner 
towards  the  boy  who  waited  in  the  house  was  rough 
even  to  harshness.  He  liked  his  ostler,  and  spoke 
kindly  to  him,  whenever  I  happened  to  see  them 
together.  I  do  not  wonder  that  his  house-servants 
ran  away  from  him.  He  lost  two  within  as  many 
years.  One  was  caught,  punished  and  immediately 
sold.  The  other,  for  whom  he  offered  a  reward  of 
§2,000,  made  good  his  escape.  After  that,  he  bought 
a  very  likely  woman,  nearly  white,  who  remained 
with  him  until  his  death. 

Such  was  John  M.  Daniel  at  home.  What  he 
at  his  office,  I  will  now  proceed  to  tell.  Whilst 


7T 

I  was  contributing  to  his  paper,  my  habit  was  to 
hand  my  article  to  the  manager  in  the  morning,  and 
at  night  I  would  go  around  to  read  the  proof. 
Daniel  himself  always  read  the  proofs,  though  not 
with  as  much  pains  as  I  liked.  He  reached  the 
office  generally  between  8  and  9  o'clock,  and  I  was 
almost  always  there  before  him.  In  those  days 
garroters  were  abundant,  and  the  first  thing  he  did,, 
after  entering  the  room,  was  to  lay  a  Derringer  pistol,, 
which  he  carried  in  his  hand  ready  for  any  emergency,, 
on  the  large  table  which  sat  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  This  done,  he  would  offer  me  a  cigar — he- 
could  never  be  persuaded  to  smoke  a  pipe,  and  his 
cigars  were  of  the  weakest — and  then  begin  the 
work  of  examining  proofs.  First,  the  proofs  of  the 
news  columns,  then  of  legislative  or  congressional 
proceedings,  next  the  local  news,  and  lastly  the 
editorials.  All  these  he  examined  with  care,  alter- 
ing, erasing,  abridging  and  adding  as  he  thought  fit. 
Even  the  advertisements  were  submitted  to  him,  and 
I  have  known  him  to  become  furious  over  an  adver- 
tisement which  he  thought  ought  not  to  have  been. 
admitted. 

He  was  the  only  newspaper  proprietor  I  ever  heard 
of  who  would  throw  out,  without  hesitation,  paying 
advertisements,  sometimes  of  much  importance  to 
advertisers,  in  order  to  make  room  for  editorials,  or 
for  contributions  which  particularly  pleased  him. 
Oftentimes  his  news  column  was  reduced  to  the  last 
point  of  compression  to  make  room  for  editorial  mat- 
ter. The  make-up  of  his  paper  engaged  his  serious- 


'78  JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 

.attention,  and  I  have  known  him  to  devote  nearly 
half  an  hour  to  the  discussion  of  the  question  where 
;such  and  such  an  article  should  go,  and  whether  it 
should  be  printed  in  "bourgeois,"  "brevier,"  or 
"leaded  minion."  He  loved  to  have  two  or  three 
really  good  editorials  in  each  issue  of  his  paper. 
Short,  pointed  articles  he  had  little  faith  in,  believing 
that  the  length  of  a  column,  or  a  column-and-a-half, 
was  essential  to  the  effect  of  an  article.  The  London 
Times  was  his  model,  and  he  promised  himself,  in 
case  the  Confederate  cause  succeeded,  to  make  the 
Examiner  fully  equal  to  its  English  model.  A  pun- 
gent paragraph  was  relished  by  him  as  much  as  by 
any  human  being — indeed,  he  was  quick  to  detect 
excellence  in  anything,  long  or  short — but  the  sub- 
editorial,  or  "  leaded  minion  "  column,  was  left  apart 
for  just  such  paragraphs,  and  the  dignity  of  the  edi- 
torial column  was  but  once,  within  my  recollection, 
trenched  upon.  Even  then  the  article  was  a  short 
editorial  rather  than  a  paragraph.  It  was  near  the 
close  of  the  war,  when,  despairing  of  the  cause,  he 
urged,  in  a  few  strong  sentences,  the  duty  of  Vir- 
ginia to  hold  herself  in  readiness  to  resume  her  sov- 
ereignty, and  to  act  for  herself  alone  in  the  great 
emergency  which  he  felt  was  approaching.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  this  was  the  last  article  he  ever 
penned. 

Laying  so  much  stress  upon  editorials,  it  was  but 
natural  that  he  should  pay  particular  attention  to  cor- 
recting them.  This,  in  fact,  was  his  main  business 
in  coming  to  his  office  at  night.  At  times  he  pre- 


79 

ferred  to  do  his  own  writing,  but  in  general,  and 
•certainly  in  the  last  year  or  two  of  his  life,  he  much 
preferred  to  have  his  ideas  put  into  words  by  others. 
Then  he  would  alter  and  amend  to  suit  his  fastidious 
taste.  Any  fault  of  grammar  or  construction,  any 
inelegance,  he  detected  immediately.  He  improved 
lay  erasure  as  much,  or  more,  than  by  addition ;  but 
-when  a  thought  in  the  contributed  article  was  at  all 
suggestive,  he  seldom  failed  to  add  two  or  three,  and 
sometimes  ten,  and  even  twenty  lines  to  it.  This 
was  a  labor  of  love  to  him,  and  did  not  fatigue  him 
.as  it  does  most  people.  On  the  other  hand,  he  dis- 
liked extremely  to  read  manuscript.  This  sometimes 
brought  trouble  upon  him.  Coming  in  one  night  he 
found  on  the  table  the  proof  of  an  article  on  finance 
which  I  had  written.  He  read  it  over  carefully,  and, 
to  my  surprise,  did  not  put  his  pencil  through  a  sin- 
_gle  line  of  it.  Whilst  I  was  pluming  myself  on  this 
unusual  circumstance,  he  looked  up  at  me  and 
laughed. 

"  Very  well  written,"  said  he,  "  but  diametrically 
opposed  to  the  view's  of  the  Examiner" 

"  Too  old  a  hand  at  the  bellows  to  be  disgruntled 
by  this,"  I  replied  quietly. 

"  Pitch  it  in  the  fire." 

"  What !  and  fill  two  columns  myself  between  this 
:and  midnight  ?  This  is  every  line  of  editorial  on  hand." 

"  I  am  really  very  sorry.  But  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  write  any  more.  I  never 
«can  write  after  dinner ;  besides,  I  am  broken  down." 

"  Let  me  see.     Let  me  see." 


80 

He  took  up  the  unlucky  editorial,  read  it  over 
more  carefully  than  before,  and  then  said,  in  a  tone 
of  great  satisfaction  :  "  I  can  fix  it." 

And  so  he  did.  Sitting  down  at  the  table,  he  went 
to  work,  and  within  twenty  minutes  transformed  it 
completely.  It  appeared  the  next  morning.  There 
were  certain  awkwardnesses,  which  we  two,  who  were 
in  the  secret,  could  detect,  but  which  to  the  bulk  of 
the  readers  of  the  paper  were  doubtless  quite  imper- 
ceptible. 

AVhen  he  had  to  write  an  article  himself,  his  first 
question,  after  the  usual  salutation,  was,  not  "What 
is  the  news  ?"  but  "  What  are  people  talking  about  ?" 
and  he  upbraided  me  continually  for  not  doing  what 
he  himself  never  did, "  circulating  among  the  people." 
He  aimed  always  to  make  his  paper  interesting  by 
the  discussion  of  subjects  which  were  uppermost  in 
the  popular  mind ;  nor  did  it  concern  him  much 
•what  the  subject  might  be.  His  only  concern  was 
that  it  should  be  treated  in  the  Examiner  with  dig- 
nity and  ability,  if  it  admitted  of  such  treatment ;  if 
not  to  dispose  of  it  humorously  or  wittily.  But  the 
humor  or  wit  must  be  done  cleverly  and  with  due 
attention  to  style.  He  began  to  write  about  ten 
o'clock ;  wrote  rapidly,  in  a  crumpled,  ugly  hand, 
and  completed  his  work,  revision  of  proofs,  and  every- 
thing by  midnight,  or  a  little  thereafter.  He  then 
returned  to  his  house,  and  either  sat  up  or  laid  awake 
in  bed,  reading,  until  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

His  assistants  in  1863-'4,  besides  reporters,  were 


81 

the  local  editor,  J.  Marshall  Hanna ;  the  news  editor, 
H.  Rives  Pollard;  and  the  editor  of  the  "leaded 
minion  "  or  war  column,  P.  H.  Gibson.  He  had  a 
high  opinion  of  them  all.  Pollard  he  declared  was 
"  the  best  news  editor  in  the  whole  South."  Hanna 
he  pronounced  "  a  genius  in  his  way,"  and  took  great 
credit  to  himself  for  having  discovered,  developed, 
and  fostered  him.  Gibson's  ability  he  acknowledged 
and  complimented  frequently  in  my  hearing. 

The  business  of  the  office  gave  him  very  little  trouble. 
He  had,  of  course,  an  eye  to  everything ;  but  the 
printing  floor,  the  press-room,  the  sale  and  distribu- 
tion of  papers,  mailing,  the  payment  of  employees, 
the  settlement  of  bills,  in  a  word,  the  finance,  out- 
door transactions,  and  banking  business,  were  all  at- 
tended to  by  R.  F.  Walker,  the  manager.  He  had 
but  a  single  book-keeper,  a  gentleman  of  the  name 
of  Gary,  who  was  also  his  cashier.  Walker  was  his 
faithful  assistant  in  everything,  from  the  purchasing 
of  type,  and  glue  for  rollers,  to  correspondence  with 
men  of  business,  and  oftentimes  with  politicians  and 
contributors.  At  the  end  of  every  week  Walker 
brought  to  the  house,  on  Broad  street,  the  bank  book, 
posted  up  to  date.  I  was  permitted  several  times  to 
look  at  this  book.  The  nett  receipts  per  week,  in 
1863-4,  were  from  $1,000,  to  $1,200,  or  $1,500 
After  deducting  personal  expenses  of  every  kind 
(and  Daniel  never  stinted  himself  in  anything),  it  may 
be  safely  assumed  that  in  the  third  year  of  the  war 
the  paper  cleared  at  least  $50,000,  perhaps  double 
that  amount.  The  owner  was  often  on  the  lookout 


82  JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 

for  investments,  and  made  a  number  of  purchases  of 
real  estate.  He  may  have  speculated,  but  if  he  did, 
the  speculations  must  have  been  on  a  small  scale. 
During  my  visits  to  his  house  I  never  saw  there 
any  one  of  the  men  who  were  known  in  Richmond 
to  be  largely  engaged  in  speculation.  Moreover,  his 
paper,  in  common  with  others,  contained  denuncia- 
tion after  denunciation  of  speculators  of  all  sorts,  and 
was  particularly  severe  upon  brokers,  gamblers,  and 
whiskey  sellers.  Towards  the  close  of  the  war,  when 
investments  of  all  sorts  were  doubtful,  I  suggested  to 
him  that  he  had  better  buy  gold.  His  reply  was, 
"  I  have  more  gold  now  than  I  know  what  to  do 
with."  I  am  persuaded,  however,  that  this  gold  was 
part  of  the  $30,000  in  coin,  or  its  equivalent,  which 
he  brought  over  with  him  from  Sardinia. 

I  have  said  that  he  never  stinted  himself,  and  this 
is  true.  His  table,  indeed,  wTas  never  loaded  with 
luxuries  and  delicacies — which  might  have  been 
bought  at  almost  any  period  of  the  war,  if  one  chose 
to  pay  the  enormous  prices  asked  for  them — for  the 
reason  that  his  digestion  would  not  tolerate  anything 
but  the  simplest  food ;  but  his  self-indulgence  was 
notably  shown  in  articles  of  dress,  in  coal,  and  in 
gas.  He  brought  with  him  from  Europe  clothes 
enough  to  have  lasted  him  for  years,  but  he  never 
scrupled  to  buy  a  $1,000  suit  whenever  he  fancied 
he  needed  it.  When  coal  was  very  high,  and  one 
fire  would  have  sufficed  him,  he  kept  two  or  three 
burning.  Gas  was  costly  in  the  extreme  ;  two  burn- 
ers of  his  chandelier  would  have  afforded  him  ample 


83 

light — for  he  had  excellent  eyes — but  he  was  not 
content  until  he  had  all  six  of  the  burners  at  their 
full  height.  In  reply  to  rny  remonstrance  against 
this  extravagance,  he  would  say  curtly : 

"  I  like  plenty  of  light." 

If  at  his  house  Daniel  was  affable  and  almost 
genial,  in  his  office  he  was,  too  frequently,  on  the 
other  extreme.  He  loved  to  show  his  authority,  and, 
as  the  saying  is,  "  to  make  things  stand  around."  His 
scowl  at  being  interrupted,  while  in  the  act  of  com- 
posing, or  when  otherwise  busily  engaged,  will 
never  be  forgotten  by  any  one  who  ever  encountered 
it.  Holding  drunken  men  in  special  detestation,  he 
was,  as  by  a  fatality,  subjected  continually  to  their 
risits,  both  at  his  office  and  at  his  house.  More  than 
once  I  have  been  sufficiently  diverted  by  intoxicated 
officers,  just  from  the  army,  who  called  in  to  pay,  in 
person,  their  maudlin  tribute  of  admiration  to  the 
editor  of  the  Examiner.  Sometimes  he  bore  these 
visitations  with  a  patience  that  surprised  me;  but  he 
never  failed  to  remunerate  himself  by  awful  impre- 
cations upon  the  intruder  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of 
hearing.  "While  his  tone  to  his  employees  was,  as  a 
general  rule,  cold,  and  often  intolerably  dictatorial,  I 
have  seen  him,  very  frequently,  as  affable  and  fa- 
miliar as  heart  could  wish.  Indeed,  I  have  known 
him  to  go  so  far  as  to  come  out  of  his  sanctum,  into 
the  small  room  occupied  by  his  sub-editors  with  the 
proof  of  a  contribution  in  his  hand,  in  order  that  they 
might  enjoy  it  with  him.  Occurrences  of  this  sort, 
however,  were  rare. 


84 

Belonging  essentially  to  the  genus  irritabile,  his 
anger  was  easily  provoked.  He  could  not  bear  to  be 
crossed  in  anything.  Whoever  said  aught  in  print 
against  "  the  Examiner  newspaper,"  was  sure  to 
bring  down  upon  himself  a  torrent  of  abuse.  Pos- 
sessing in  an  eminent  degree,  and,  indeed,  priding 
himself  upon  his  sense  of  the  becoming  and  the  de- 
corous, he  was  no  sooner  engaged  in  a  newspaper 
controversy  than  he  forgot,  or  at  least  threw  behind 
him,  the  sense  even  of  decency,  and  heaped  upon  his 
adversary  epithets  which  ought  never  to  have  defiled 
the  columns  of  a  respectable  journal.  This  was  kept, 
up,  sometimes,  long  after  the  original  heat  of  the 
controversy  had  abated — his  purpose  being,  as  I  sup- 
pose, to  give  the  opposing  paper,  and  others,  a  lesson 
which  would  never  be  forgotten,  and  thus  to  ensure 
himself  against  similar  annoyances  in  the  future.  To 
avoid  trouble  and  to  maintain  the  Times-like  char- ' 
acter  of  the  Examiner ',  his  rule  was  never  to  notice 
the  opinions  of  other  papers,  and  not  even  to  quote 
from  them.  He  waited  to  be  attacked ;  but  when  at- 
tacked, he  followed  the  advice  of  Polonius  to  the 
very  letter.  But  his  hottest  anger  and  his  bitterest 
maledictions  were  reserved  for  his  political  enemies. 
His  rage  against  the  administration  of  Mr.  Davis,  and 
particularly  certain  members  of  his  Cabinet,  was,  at 
times,  terrible.  In  like  manner,  the  journalistic  par- 
tizans  of  the  Administration  came  in  for  a  full  share 
of  his  fury.  I  shall  never  forget  his  excitement,  one 
night,  on  hearing  that  a  certain  article  in  the  En- 
quirer  had  been  written  by  a  person  formerly  in  his 


85 

•employ.  I  can  see  him  now,  striding  up  and  down 
the  room,  exclaiming,  "I'll  put  a  ball  through  him !" 
"I'll  put  a  ball  through  him  !"  This  sentence  he  re- 
peated fully  twenty  times,  and  in  a  tone  which  gave 
assurance  of  a  purpose  quite  as  deadly  as  his  words 
imported.  Yet  nothing  came  of  it.  He  was  a  hearty 
.and  persistent  hater,  but  he  was  not  implacable. 
During  his  stormy  life  he  had  many  fallings  out  and 
many  makings  up.  It  is  not  unsafe  to  assert  that 
he  never  had  a  friend  with  whom,  at  some  time,  he 
did  not  have  a  misunderstanding ;  yet  it  is  certain 
that  he  died  in  perfect  peace,  and  on  good  terms  with 
all,  or  nearly  all,  of  his  old  friends.  One  of  the  last 
and  most  pleasing  acts  of  his  life  was  the  glad  ac- 
ceptance with  which  he  met  the  advance  of  his  friend, 
Mr.  Thomas  H.  Wynne,  from  whom  he  had  been  es- 
tranged during  nearly  the  whole  war. 

His  enmity  to  Mr.  Davis,  amounting  to  something 
like  a  frenzy,  will  be  ascribed,  by  those  who  differed 
from  him  in  opinion,  to  a  bad  heart,  pique  at  not  be- 
ing made  the  confidential  friend  of  the  President,  or 
at  not  having  been  sent  abroad  in  a  diplomatic  ca- 
pacity. But  by  those,  on  the  other  hand,  who  agreed 
with  him  in  thinking  that  the  cause  suffered  more 
from  mal-administration  than  from  anything  or  all 
things  else,  his  course  will  not  be  so  harshly  judged; 
and  their  chief  regret  will  be  that  arguments  so  for- 
cible as  Daniel's  were  not  left  to  produce  their  effect, 
unaided,  or  rather  unimpeded,  by  diatribe  and  invec- 
tive. To  reconcile  these  conflicting  opinions  is  im- 
possible, and  if  it  were  not,  is  beyond  the  intent  and 


86 

aim  of  this  sketch.  I  remember  asking  him  once 
whether  Mr.  Davis  ever  saw  his  animadversions  upon 
him. 

"  They  tell  me  down  stairs,"  he  replied,  "  that  the 
first  person  here  in  the  morning  is  Jeff.  Davis's  body 
servant.  He  comes  before  day-light,  and  says  that 
his  master  can't  get  out  of  bed  or  eat  his  breakfast 
until  his  appetite  is  stimulated  by  reading  every 
word  in  the  Examiner" 

"Do  you  think  he  profits  by  its  perusal?" 

"Unquestionably.  The  few  sound  ideas  he  ever 
had  came  from  the  Examiner" 

This  he  said  with  perfect  sincerity,  for  he  contend- 
ed, both  in  the  paper  and  out  of  it,  that  every  wise 
and  useful  measure  which  had  been  promulgated  by 
the  administration  or  by  Congress,  was  borrowed  or 
stolen  from  the  Examiner. 

He  was  proud  of  his  paper.  If  he  sometimes  re- 
garded it  as  "a  mill-stone  about  his  neck,"  he  never- 
theless devoted  his  life  to  it,  and  found  in  it  his  chief 
happiness.  He  looked  to  it  as  a  source  of  power  and 
wealth  in  the  future.  Of  that  future,  he  was  more 
sanguine  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  How  well  I 
remember  the  night  he  said  to  me,  without  provoca- 
tion, if  I  recollect  aright : 

"  I  shall  live  to  eat  the  goose  that  eats  the  grass 
over  your  grave." 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  my  appearance 
which  called  forth  the  remark,  for  I  must  have  been 
worn  by  the  enormous  amount  of  work  I  was  then 
doing. 


87 

I  looked  up  from  the  table,  where  I  sat  writing, 
and  said  quietly : 

"  I  don't  doubt  it ;  but  what  makes  you  say  so  ?" 

"  Two  reasons ;  I  come  of  a  long-lived  race,  and  I 
have  an  infallible  sign  of  longevity." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  never  dream — my  sleep  is  always  sound  and 
refreshing." 

Little  did  I  then  think  that  before  two  years  were 
ended,  I  should  see  him  in  his  coffin.  He  was  mis- 
taken, however,  in  saying  that  he  came  of  a  long- 
lived  race.  His  father  was  not  old  when  he  diedy 
and  his  mother  was  comparatively  young  when  she 
came  to  her  death — of  consumption,  if  I  mistake  not, 
He  was  thinking,  probably,  of  his  uncle,  Judge 
Daniel,  more  than  his  parents.  His  own  health  was- 
never  robust;  his  constitution  was  delicate,  as  a 
glance  at  his  figure  showed.  His  chest  was  narrow 
and  rather  shallow,  though  not  sunken,  and  his  hips 
were  broad.  The  organs  of  digestion  and  respiration 
were  alike  feeble.  He  had  had  an  attack  of  pneu- 
monia before  going  to  Europe,  and  during  his  whole 
life  he  was  a  victim  of  dyspepsia,  from  which  he  had 
suffered  greatly  in  youth  and  early  manhood.  I  often 
warned  him  against  the  injudicious  and  frequent  use 
of  blue  mass,  his  favorite  medicine.  Great  virile 
strength  he  had,  as  was  shown  by  his  dense  beard 
and  the  coarse  hair  on  his  feminine  hands,  but  in 
muscle,  sinew  and  bone  he  was  deficient.  He  took 
great  care  of  himself.  I  was  told  that  when  he  re- 
turned to  Richmond  his  person  was  protected  by  a 


88 

triple  suit  of  underclothing.  Next  to  his  skin  he 
wore  flannel;  over  that,  buckskin,  and  over  that 
again,  silk.  This  load  of  clothing  he  contended  was 
indispensable  to  health  in  Turin,  where  the  atmos- 
pheric changes  were  very  violent  and  sudden.  In 
Richmond  he  dispensed  with  some  of  this  undergear, 
but  probably  gave  up  only  the  buckskin.  Among 
other  items  which  he  gave  a  Maryland  blockade  run- 
ner, who  waited  on  him  one  day  while  I  was  present, 
was  an  order  for  "  one  dozen  silk  shirts  of  the  largest 
size."  This  size  he  particularly  insisted  on,  and  the 
inference  was  that  he  intended  to  wear  them  over 
flannel.  What  availed  all  these  precautions  when 
the  final  summons  came  ? 

Long  as  this  article  is,  I  cannot  close  it  without 
some  allusion  to  John  M.  Daniel  as  an  editor  and  as 
a  man.  He  was  born  an  editor.  Whatever  may 
have  been  his  abilities  as  a  diplomatist  and  a  politi- 
cian, whatever  distinction  he  might  have  attained  in 
the  forum  or  in  the  field,  his  forte  lay  decidedly  in 
the  department  of  letters,  and  more  especially  in  the 
conduct  of  a  newspaper.  lie  was  not  a  poet,  not  a 
historian,  a  novelist,  an  essayist,  or  even,  if  I  may 
coin  the  word,  a  magazinist.  He  had  talent  enough 
to  have  excelled  in  any  or  all  of  these,  but  his  taste 
led  him  in  another  direction.  It  was  hoped  by  every- 
body that  he  would  on  his  return  home  write  a 
volume  about  his  residence  in  Europe.  Such  a  book 
would  have  been  exceedingly  interesting  and  valu- 
able. Bat  he  was  not  a  book-maker.  Moreover,  it 
is  not  improbable  that  he  expected  to  return  to  diplo- 


89 

made  life,  and  did  not  wish  to  embarrass  himself  by 
reflections  upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
people  among  whom  he  expected  to  reside.  He 
could  not  have  written  about  the  Italians  or  any 
other  people  without  dipping  his  pen  in  vitriol.  The 
publication  of  a  part  of  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend, 
Dr.  Peticolas,  had  brought  him  into  trouble  with  the 
Italians,  and  made  him  furious  with  his  associate, 
Hughes,  who  took  charge  of  the  Examiner  in  his  ab- 
sence. This  occurred  early  in  his  career  as  a  diplomat, 
and  made  him  cautious.  He  preserved  his  dispatches 
with  utmost  care,  in  large  handsomely  bound  vol- 
umes; but  whether  with  a  view  to  publication  or  for 
his  own  use  in  after  years,  I  am  unable  to  say. 

I  remember  his  telling  me  one  night  that  he  in- 
tended to  make  a  book. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  I. 

"  Mark  you,  I  did  not  say  write  a  book,  but  make 
a  book." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  to  make  a  book  with  the  scissors,"  he 
replied. 

"How  so?" 

"Why,  by  taking  the  files  of  the  Examiner  from 
its  foundation  to  the  present  time,  and  clipping  the 
best  things  from  them.  I  am  sure  that  I  could  in 
this  way  make  a  book,  consisting  of  a  number  of 
volumes,  which  would  contain  more  sense,  more  wit 
and  more  humor  than  anything  that  has  been  pub- 
lished in  this  country  for  the  last  twenty  years. 
Similar  publications  have  been  made  in  England  in 


90 

modern  times,  and  long  since  the  days  of  the  Spec- 
tator and  the  Rambler,  and  they  have  succeeded.  I 
believe  that  the  best  things  which  have  appeared  in 
the  Examiner,  if  put  into  book  form,  would  com- 
pare favorably  with  any  English  publication  of  the 
kind,  and  that  the  book  would  command  a  ready 
Bale." 

So  far  as  my  personal  knowledge  goes,  this  is  the 
only  book  which  John  M.  Daniel  ever  thought  seri- 
ously of  making.  I  agreed  with  him  then,  and  I  can 
but  think  now,  that  the  present  owners  of  the  Ex- 
aminer would  do  well  to  carry  out  his  views.  In  the 
impoverished  condition  of  the  South,  at  this  precise , 
time,  it  is  idle  to  expect  a  very  large  sale  of  any 
publication  whatsoever;  but  the  day  will  come,  I 
trust,  when  the  bound  volume  of  selections  from  the 
Examiner  will  have  a  place  in  every  Southern  gen- 
tleman's library. 

John  M.  Daniel  was  emphatically  an  editor — not 
a  newspaper  contributor,  but  an  editor  and  a  politi- 
cian. He  was  enough  of  the  latter  to  have  made  a 
name  in  the  Cabinet.  He  was  no  orator,  although  he 
had  an  orator's  mouth.  I  never  heard  of  his  making  a 
public  speech.  He  must  have  had  a  great  natural 
repugnance  to  speaking.  Could  he  have  overcome 
this  repugnance,  he  had  command  enough  of  lan- 
guage to  have  ensured  him  considerable  distinction 
in  forensic  display ;  but  his  temper  was  far  too  hot 
and  quick  to  admit  of  success  in  debate.  He  knew 
men,  in  the  light  in  which  a  politician  views  them, 
thoroughly  well.  His  natural  faculty  of  weighing 


91 

measures  and  of  foreseeing  their  effects,  was  much 
above  the  common.  He  had  in  him  the  elements  of 
a  statesman.  His  historical  studies  and  his  know- 
ledge of  mankind  were  not  in  vain.  Before  the  first 
blow  was  struck,  and  when  both  Mr.  Benjamin  and 
Mr.  Seward,  speaking  the  sentiments  of  their  re- 
spective peoples,  were  issuing  their  "ninety  days 
notes,"  he  prophesied  not  only  the  magnitude,  but 
the  inhuman  and  unchristian  ferocity  of  the  late  war. 
And  who,  in  this  sad  hour,  can  forget  how,  as  the 
struggle  drew  near  its  close,  lie  strove  day  after  day 
and  week  after  week  to  revive  the  flagging  spirits,, 
and  to  kindle  anew  the  energy  and  courage  of  the 
Southern  people,  by  terrible  pictures  of  the  fate 
which  has  ever  attended  ki oppressed  nationalities?" 
It  is  true  that  these  articles  were  written  by  John 
Mitchell;  but  they  were  inspired  by  Daniel.  Alas! 
those  prophecies,  like  all  others,  have  been  inter- 
preted fully  only  in  their  completion. 

As  a  politician,  eminence  was  not  his.  Had  he 
lived,  it  is  as  certain  as  anything  human  can  be,  that 
he  would  have  filled  an  honored  niche  in  the  temple 
of  political  fame ;  but  his  celebrity  was  destined  to  be 
confined  to  the  domain  of  journalism.  Therein  l\& 
obtained  a  distinction  which  has  been  surpassed  by 
none  and  equalled  but  by  few  American  journalists. 
His  place  is  by  the  side  of  Thomas  Ritchie,  Hampden 
Pleasants  and  Joseph  Gales.  As  an  editor,  he  was- 
to  politicians  what  the  Earl  of  Warwick  was  to 
kings. 

"  It  is  said,"  he  remarked  to  me  one  day,  "  that  my 


•92 

admiration  for  Floyd  is  due  to  the  fact  that  Floyd 
made  me.  The  truth  is,  I  made  Floyd." 

He  was  accustomed  to  magnify  his  office  of  editor, 
and  his  exalted  opinion  of  Gen.  Floyd  was  based,  not 
upon  gratitude,  but  upon  his  estimate  of  the  man 
himself.  It  has  been  said  that  the  quality  which 
.women  most  admire  in  men  is  "  strength."  The  as- 
sertion holds  equally  good  of  man's  admiration  for 
man,  and  is  particularly  true  in  regard  to  John  M. 
Daniel.  He  worshipped  strength,  and  nothing  but 
strength  of  mind  and  of  body.  He  despised  fools 
and  weaklings  of  all  sorts.  Goodness — the  moral 
qualities — he  threw  entirely  out  of  the  account.  He 
did  not  much  believe  in  the  existence  of  these  quali- 
ties, and  when  they  did  exist,  he  regarded  them  as 
but  evidences  of  weakness.  Floyd  was  his  "  man  of 
bronze " — therefore  he  liked  him.  Of  another  and 
more  distinguished  politician  he  would  speak  in 
terms  of  extreme  contempt.  "  He  snivels — he  weeps," 
he  would  say,  in  tones  of  indescribable  disgust. 
Often  have  I  heard  him  expatiate  upon  Wigfall's 
magnificent  physique  and  his  unmistakable  natural 
courage.  "It  is  the  genuine  thing,"  he  would  say. 
"  There  is  no  put  on  there.  He  has  got  native  pluck 
—the  actual  article ;  it  is  no  strain  on  him  to  exhibit 
it.  The  grit  is  in  him,  and  you  can't  shake  him." 

Of  Daniel's  own  courage,  I  think  I  can  speak 
.safely  and  correctly ;  and  I  may  as  well  do  so  here, 
although  I  had  intended  to  defer  mention  of  it  until 
I  carne  to  the  discussion  of  his  character  as  a  man. 

He  did  not  have  the  hard  animal  bravery  of  Wig- 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY.  93 

fall;  it  was  not  in  his  constitution.  His  highly 
wrought  nervous  system  was  not  sufficiently  pano- 
plied with  brawn  to  ensure  it  against  the  agitation 
arising:  from  a  sudden  shock  or  the  violence  of  an 

O 

unexpected  attack  with  the  fist  or  club.  Nor  was  he 
of  that  tough  and  wiry  make  which  enables  some 
fragile  men  to  meet  the  rudest  physical  assaults  with- 
out an  outward  tremor.  But  he  had  courage  of 
another  sort,  and  had  it  in  a  high  degree.  What  is 
generally  called  moral  courage,  but  is  more  properly 
intellectual  courage — that  is,  bravery  which  is  founded 
not  upon  combativeness,  the  consciousness  of  muscular 
strength,  or  upon  great  excitability  unrestrained  by 
caution,  but  upon  the  clear  perception  of  the  nature 
and  extent  of  danger,  together  with  the  hardihood  of 
great  self-esteem  and  pride  of  character — he  pos- 
sessed to  an  extent  which  is  rarely  seen.  To  make 
a  reputation,  he  commenced  his  editorial  career  by 
attacking  personally  nearly  every  man  of  note  in 
Virginia,  thereby  incurring  a  responsibility  in  the 
field  and  out  of  it — for  it  rested  with  the  parties  as- 
sailed to  demand  satisfaction  according  to  the  code 
or  to  take  it  at  the  pistol's  mouth  in  the  street,  as 
seemed  best  in  their  eyes — which  few  men  of  the 
strongest  nerve  would  have  dared  to  assume. 

He  lived  in  a  land  where  duels  were  common ;  in 
a  city  where  the  editor  of  the  'Whig  had  been  slain 
but  a  few  years  before,  and  among  a  people  'who 
never  entertained  the  first  thought  of  accepting 
damages  at  law  as  reparation  for  a  personal  affront ; 
hence  the  course  of  the  Examiner  during  its  earlier 


-94 

years  was  attended  with  a  degree  of  danger  which 
none  but  a  truly  daring  or  a  fool-hardy  man  would 
ever  have  encountered.  But  Daniel  was  no  fool ; 
and  although  he  lacked  caution  and  allowed  the 
bitterness  of  his  feelings  to  carry  him  too  far,  he 
was  anything  but  reckless.  Appreciating  fully  his 
danger,  he  willingly  risked  his  life  and  his  reputa- 
tion in  order  to  secure  the  advantages  which  lay  be- 
yond the  point  he  so  coolly  braved.  To  carry  his 
point,  he  accepted  cheerfully  the  odium  of  the  com- 
munity, and,  indeed,  of  the  whole  State  in  which  he 
lived.  For  the  sake  of  power  and  a  competency,  he 
became  an  outcast  from  society.  At  one  time  he 
was  literally  hated  or  feared  by  everybody.  In  the 
whole  world  there  was  scarcely  a  human  being  who 
really  liked  him  for  himself.  All  this  he  brought 
upon  himself,  deliberately  and  for  a  purpose.  He 
marked  out  an  arduous  course,  and  he  followed  that 
course  resolutely  to  the  last  day  of  his  life,  accept- 
ing all  the  consequences.  Surely,  neither  a  weak  nor 
-a  timid  man  could  have  done  this.  Assaulted  sud- 
denly in  the  streets  by  a  powerful  rnan,  of  known 
courage,  who  threatened  then  and  there  to  cut  his 
ears  off,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  that  the  fragile 
man  showed  some  agitation;  but  his  intrepid  "you 
shall  have  your  duel"  in  the  admirable  correspon- 
dence with  Elmore,  and  his  calm  bearing  on  the 
field  in  the  very  presence  of  death  (for  his  adversary 
was  no  trifler),  proved  beyond  question  that  John  M. 
Daniel  had  that  within  him  which  men  in  every  age 
have  recognized  as  genuine  courage. 


95 

To  return  from  this  digression :  He  was  an  editor 
in  the  best  and  fullest  meaning  of  the  word.  He 
xiould  not  only  wTrite  himself,  and  write  well,  but  he 
•could  make  others  write  well.  The  crudest  articles, 
as  I  have  shown,  if  they  had  but  the  germ  of  some- 
thing good  in  them,  could  be  transformed  by  him 
in  a  few  moments,  with  an  ease  and  an  art  peculiarly 
his  own,  into  powerful  leaders.  A  touch  or  two  of 
his  pen  gave  a  new  coloring  to  a  contribution  and 
made  it  his  own.  He  had  the  power  of  infusing  his 
spirit  into  every  part  of  .his  paper,  and  of  giving  it 
thereby  an  individuality  which  made  it  as  attractive 
as  it  was  unique.  He  had  innumerable  editorial  con- 
tributors, but  they  all  caught,  insensibly  and  quietly, 
his  spirit,  his  very  tone ;  and  there  was  about  the  Ex- 
aminer, whenever  he  was  at  the  head  of  it,  a  homo- 
geneity which  under  other  managers  it  never  at- 
tained. It  was  easy  to  tell  when  he  left  the  paper 
and  when  he  came  back  to  it.  His  precise  arti- 
cles could  not  always  be  told,  but  there  was  a  name- 
less something  about  the  paper,  as  a  whole,  which 
gave  indubitable  evidence  of  his  presence.  The  very 
arrangement  of  the  printed  matter  and  the  allocation 
of  articles  betrayed  him  behind  the  scenes.  He 
brought  with  him.  as  often  as  he  resumed  the  helm, 
a  magnetic  charm  which  drew  to  the  paper  the  clev- 
erest things  which  were  written  by  anybody.  Who- 
ever chanced  to  do  a  good  thing  with  the  pen  was 
anxious  for  it  to  appear  in  the  Examiner.  There 
it  would  be  read  by  more  people  and  be  better  ap- 
preciated than  in  any  other  paper.  The  credit  would 


96 

be  Daniel's,  but  what  of  that?  The  intellectual 
bantling  would  be  sure  not  to  die  still-born.  It 
would  make  a  noise  and  be  talked  about;  its  un- 
known parent  would  hear  its  praises  and  be  secretly 
proud. 

Many  men  have  written  for  the  Examiner,  and 
some  have  conducted  it  with  ability ;  but  it  has  never 
been,  and  it  may  be  fairly  reckoned  that  it  never  will 
be,  edited  as  it  was  by  John  M.  Daniel.  He  had  not 
the  humor,  and  he  may  not  have  had  the  wit  of  some 
of  the  contributors ;  nor  did  he  have  the  financial 
knowledge  or  the  scientific  attainments  of  others  who 
wrote  for  him ;  but  he  made  a  better  editor  than  any 
or  all  of  those  combined  could  have  made.  The 
truth  of  this  assertion  will  be  understood  fully  when 
I  call  the  names  of  some  of  his  contributors.  They 
are  as  follows :  Robert  W.  Hughes,  Patrick  Henry 
Aylett,  William  Old,  Dr.  A.  E.  Peticolas,  Edward 
A.  Pollard,  L.  Q.  Washington,  Prof.  Basil  Gilder- 
sleeve,  John  R.  Thompson  and  John  Mitchell.  Some 
of  these  gentlemen  have  had  the  paper  entirely  in 
their  charge  for  months  at  a  time,  but  it  is  no  dis- 
paragement to  them  to  say  that  the  paper  in  their 
hands  was  never  what  it  was  in  the  hands  of  John 
M.  Daniel.  He  had  in  him  an  intensity  of  bitterness 
which  they  did  not  possess,  and  would  not  have  dis- 
played if  they  had  possessed.  He  had  a  strength  of 
originality,  an  art  of  attracting  contributions  and  of 
shaping  them  into  his  own  similitude,  and  what  is 
most  to  the  point,  a  pains-taking  attention  to  the  mi- 
nutiae of  the  paper,  which,  combined,  made  him  an 


97 

editor  whose  equal,  in  all  respects,  has  never  been 
seen  in  this  country. 

He  had  little,  and  if  his  own  opinion  were  taken, 
not  a  particle  of  humor.  He  was  too  bitter  for  that. 
But  he  had  the  quickest  and  keenest  appreciation  of 
the  humorous.  Dickens  was  a  favorite  with  him, 
Nay,  he  had,  he  must  have  had,  humor  of  his  own, 
Wit  he  had  in  a  high  degree,  and  of  every  sort ;  but 
he  was  particularly  happy  in  nicknaming  and  in  per- 
sonalities of  all  kinds.  Some  of  those  names  showed 
both  wit  and  humor;  as  when  he  called  the  cadets  of 
the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  on  the  occasion  of 
their  first  visit  to  Richmond,  "  kildees,"  a  title  which, 
as  it  seemed  to  belittle  them,  made  the  cadets  very  an- 
gry, but  which  was,  nevertheless,  so  appropriate  and 
so  harmless  that  everybody  laughed  good-naturedly 
at  it.  The  appellation  of  "leaden  gimlet,"  which  he 
applied  to  a  certain  lawyer  in  Richmond,  is  an  ex- 
ample of  galling  satire,  without  the  least  admixture 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  The  office  of  Mr.  Ben- 
jamin, the  Secretary  of  State,  contained  files  of  the 
leading  newspapers  of  the  Confederacy ;  and  hence  it 
was  called  by  Daniel  "the  Confederate  Reading 

J  O- 

Room" — a  name  intended  to  convey  his  contempt 
at  once  for  the  office  and  the  official  who  occupied  it.. 
He  had  a  lively  fancy,  but  little  or  no  imagination 
in  the  higher  sense  of  the  term.     Certainly  he  had 
not  the  creative  faculty.    I  do  not  know  that  he  ever 
attempted  rhyme,  much  less  poetry  or  dramatic  char- 
acterization.    His  mind  was   logical,   but   dry   and 
elaborate  argumentation  was  not  to  his  liking..     He 
7 


98 

caught  readily  the  salient  points  of  a  question,  and 
aimed,  in  writing,  to  present  them  forcibly,  but  not 
with  too  much  brevity.  I  saw  him  return  to  the  au- 
thor a  number  of  editorials  which  I  thought  excellent, 
and  asked  him  why  he  did  so.  "They  are  well 
written,"  said  he,  "  in  fact,  they  are  elegantly  writ- 
ten ;  but  there  is  no  incision  in  them." 

His  reading  was  various  and  extensive,  his  memory 
first-rate.  He  told  me  that,  during  his  residence 
abroad,  he  not  only  made  himself  familiar  with 
Italian  and  French  literature,  but  read,  in  addition, 
every  Latin  author  of  celebrity,  and  many  whose 
names  were  almost  wholly  unknown.  Greek  he  neg- 
lected, and  he  paid  little  attention  to  German.  His- 
tory, biography,  memoirs,  political  treatises,  novels, 
poetry  and  essays  of  the  better  class,  he  literally  de- 
voured, and  retained  with  wonderful  fidelity  every- 
thing of  importance  that  he  had  ever  read.  He 
cared  little,  I  think,  for  metaphysics,  or  for  the 
exact  sciences,  and  discovered  less  information  in  re- 
gard to  anatomy  and  physiology  than  many  men  of 
ordinary  capacity  and  education.  He  was  not,  strictly 
speaking,  a  learned  man.  His  taste  was  pure  and  cor- 
rect ;  his  love  of  "  English  undefiled  "  very  great.  Yet 
he  was  not  a  slavish  purist.  His  peculiar  spelling 
was  but  a  mark  of  his  infinite  detestation  of  Web- 
ster as  a  New  England  Yankee.  His  favorite  au- 
thors were  Yoltaire  and  Swift.  The  latter  was  his 
model.  He  often  urged  me  to  study  Swift  diligently, 
in  preference  to  Addison,  Dry  den,  Milton,  or  any 
other  English  author,  ancient  or  modern. 


99 

It  remains  for  me  to  speak  of  him  in  his  personal 
character,  and  this  I  shall  do  as  briefly  as  I  can.  He 
who  has  ever  looked  unflinchingly  into  his  own  heart 
will  be  slow  to  bring  against  another  the  accusation 
which  so  many  were  fond  of  bringing  against  John 
M.  Daniel — that  he  was  "  a  bad  man."  That  he  was 
•essentially  and  thoroughly  "bad,"  no  one  who  knew 
him  intimately  will  charge.  De  mortals  nil  nisi 
bomtm.  Upon  that  principle  alone  I  should  exoner- 
.ate  him  from  the  charge.  But  more  than  that,  I 
.saw  and  heard  too  much  to  allow  me,  for  an  in- 
stant, to  yield  assent  to  every  sweeping  indictment 
against  the  character  of  the  dead  Virginian.  Whilst 
he  was  yet  extremely  poor,  he  went  twenty  miles  to 
lend  a  still  poorer  friend  some  money ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  to  save  himself  an  expense  which  he  could 
ill  afford,  walked  the  whole  distance  between  Rich- 
mond and  Petersburg  and  back  again.  This  does  not 
argue  a  bad  heart.  He  bore  his  poverty  manfully, 
denied  himself  and  "  owed  no  man  anything."  Such 
is  not  the  wont  of  bad  men.  I  know  it  gave  him  sin- 
cere pleasure  to  compose  a  quarrel,  and,  when  called 
upon,  he  exerted  himself  energetically  to  accomplish 
that  end.  But  bad  men  prefer  to  stir  up  strife,  rather 
than  to  allay  it.,  I  know  that  he  made  a  trip  to 
Charlottesville  for  the  purpose  of  buying  a  house  ad- 
vertised for  sale  at  auction,  which  house  he  intended 
to  rent  cheaply  to  me,  in  order  that  I  might  escape 
the  grinding  exactions  of  city  landlords.  And  this 
he  did  at  my  request.  Is  it  the  habit  of  bad  men  to 
undertake  such  journeys  in  the  interest  of  those  who 


100 

have  no  special  claim  on  them  ?  I  know  that  at  a 
time  when  nearly  every  property  owner  in  Richmond 
seemed  almost  conscienceless  in  their  extortions,  the 
houses  purchased  by  John  M.  Daniel,  and  fitted  up 
by  him  at  no  trifling  expense,  were  rented  to  his  as- 
sistant editors  on  terms  most  reasonable.  Is  this  the 
practice  of  bad  men  ?  That  Daniel  was  not  liberal 
and  open-hearted  I  will  admit.  But  he  was  not  a 
screw.  He  was  just,  upright  in  his  dealings,  prompt 
to  the  minute  in  all  his  payments.  His  printers,  his 
writers,  all  in  his  employ,  were  better  paid  than  those 
in  any  other  newspaper  office  in  the  city.  If  this  be 
the  habit  of  bad  men,  what  pity  it  is  that  the  world 
is  not  full  of  them ! 

That  he  treated  his  relatives  with  unkindness,  and 
that  the  hardships  he  endured  in  the  days  of  his  pov- 
erty were  no  sufficient  excuse  for  this  unkindness,  no 
one  who  has  heard  both  sides  of  the  question  will 
deny.  But  the  man  was  morbid,  both  in  body  and  in 
mind.  One  of  the  evidences  of  insanity  laid  down 
in  the  books  is  a  causeless  hatred  of  the  nearest  and 
best  relatives  and  friends.  I  do  not  say  or  believe 
that  John  M.  Daniel  was  insane.  Nevertheless,  his 
bitterness  towards  people  in  general,  and  towards 
certain  kindred  in  particular,  betokened  anything 
but  mental  soundness.  His  body,  perhaps,  was 
never  entirely  free  from  disease.  The  tubercular 
disposition,  with  a  tendency  to  development  in  that 
part  of  the  system  (the  digestive  organs)  the  dis- 
orders of  which  are  known  to  affect  the  mind 
more  powerfully  than  any  others,  may  account  for 


JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY.  101 

many  of  those  unfortunate  peculiarities  which  con- 
tradistinguished him  from  healthier  and  happier  men. 
Had  lie  possessed  a  florid  complexion  and  a  robust 
organism,  who  believes  that  his  faults  would  have 
been  the  same?  Temperament  is  not  an  adequate 
excuse  for  every  failing,  but  due  allowance  should 
ever  be  made  for  its  influence. 

Added  to  his  bodily  infirmities,  there  was  a  want 
of  faith  in  human  nature  and  its  Great  Author.  Yet 
he  was  by  no  means  an  atheist,  but  rather  a  deist.  I 
questioned  him  very  gravely  one  day  concerning  his 
belief  in  God.  He  paused  for  some  time,  and  then 
answered  very  cautiously  and  vaguely.  The  impres- 
sion left  on  my  mind  was  that  he  believed  in  a  Great 
First  Cause,  but  wished  for  more  light.  Touching 
the  revelation  of  the  New  Testament,  he  gave  no 
opinion.  He  seemed,  however,  to  think  that  really 
nothing  was  known  in  regard  to  the  "  bourne 
whence  no  traveller  returns."*  When  this  subject 

*  The  following  incident,  recently  communicated  to  me,  may 
be  relied  on  as  strictly  true,  and  serves  still  further  to  illustrate 
Daniel's  character : 

Dr.  Kawlings  said  to  Walkei  some  weeks  before  Daniel's  death  : 
"Walker,  Daniel  must  die.  You  seem  to  be  able  to  talk  to  him 
at  all  times  without  offending  him,  and,  if  you  think  proper,  the 
next  time  you  find  him  in  a  calm  frame  of  mind,  you  may  ask  him 
if  he  would  like  to  converse  with  a  minister  of  the  Gospel." 
Knowing  Daniel's  dislike  to  most  preachers,  Walker  thought  over 
the  matter  several  days  before  he  could  muster  courage  to  bring 
up  the  subject.  One  morning  when  he  seemed  stronger  and  per- 
fectly free  from  pain,  Walker  sat  some  moments,  very  nervous 
and  almost  afraid  to  allude  to  the  matter ;  but  at  length  he  said : 
"  Mr.  Daniel,  you  have  always  thought  a  great  deal  of  Dr.  Hoge  ; 
you  believe  he  is  a  sincere,  good  man."  He  replied,  very 


102 

was  broached,  neither  of  us  dreamed  that  he  was  so 
soon  to  explore  that  unknown  world,  which  lay  dark 
and  unfathomable  before  him.  But  a  few  evenings 
before  he  had  congratulated  himself  upon  the  posi- 
tion he  had  gained  in  the  world. 

"I  am  still  young,"  said  he;  "not  very  young, 
either,  for  I  will  soon  be  forty.  But  I  know  no 
young  man  who  has  better  prospects  than  myself, 
and  few  who  have  done  so  well.  I  suppose  I  am 
worth  now  nearly  $100,000  in  good  money.  The 
Examiner  is  very  valuable  property,  and  destined  to 
be  much  more  so.  I  expect  to  live  long,  and,  if  I  do, 
I  shall  be  rich.  When  I  am  rich  I  shall  buy  the  old 
family  estate  in  Stafford  county,  and  shall  add  to  it 
all  the  land  for  miles  around.  I  shall  build  a  house 
to  my  fancy,  and,  with  my  possessions  walled  in,  I 
shall  teach  these  people  what  they  never  knew — how 
to  live  like  a  gentleman." 

Such,  in  effect,  and  almost  in  words,  was  the  pic- 
ture he  drew  of  his  future.  It  was  the  first  and  only 
time  I  ever  knew  him  to  indulge  his  fancy  in  build- 
ing air  castles. 

I  may  add,  as  one  additional  proof  that  he  was  not 
an  atheist,  the  fact  that  he  made  it.  a  rule  to  publish 

promptly,  "  Well,  what  of  it  ?"  Walker  answered,  "  You  are  very 
ill,  anc  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  have  him  call  on  you 
and  talk  with  you."  He  looked  up,  smilingly,  and  said,  "  Walker, 
/  am  no  woman  !  I  don't  want  any  one  but  yourself  to  come 
into  this  room  except  the  doctor."  He  never  alluded  to  his  being 
dangerously  ill  save  once,  when  he  said  to  Walker,  "Send  word 
to  your  wife  that  you  will  sleep  in  my  house  to-nigbt.  Something 
may  happen  before  morning,  and  I  want  you  with  me." 


103 

in  the  Examiner,  on  each  succeeding  New  Year's  day, 
a  poem  in  honor  of  the  Deity.  He  did  this,  not 
merely  because  he  thought  it  a  becoming  and  good 
old  custom,  but  because  it  was  a  real  gratification 
to  him  to  do  so.  He  bestowed  much  thought  on  the 
selection  of  this  New  Year's  poem,  singled  it  out 
months  beforehand,  and  sometimes  consulted  his 
friends  to  ascertain  whether  there  was  not  some  poem 
of  the  kind  with  which  he  was  not  acquainted.  He 
certainly  asked  me  to  aid  him  in  making  such  a  selec- 
tion, and  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  he  did  not 
consult  others  also. 

He  hated  men,  but  not  mankind.  To  the  latter  he 
was  indifferent.  But  he  despised  men  more  than  he 
hated  them.  It  had  been  his  misfortune  to  view 
men  from  two  inauspicious  standpoints — from  pov- 
erty on  the  one  hand,  and  from  power  on  the  other — 
and  in  'each  case  the  picture  was  distorted  by  the 
medium  of  a  morbid  physical  and  mental  nature. 
Proud,  with  the  pride  of  an  acute  and  bold  intellect, 
he  fancied,  in  his  days  of  penury,  that  he  was  g 
contemned  and  neglected,  when  he  knew  he  had  that 
within  him  which  was  to  be  neither  neglected  nor 
contemned.  After  he  had  proved  this,  after  he  had 
become  famous,  prosperous  and  powerful,  he  despised 
men,  because  he  fancied  they  envied  him  his  pros- 
perity, feared  his  power  and  hated  himself.  "  Man 
pleased  him  not ;  no,  nor  woman  either,"  because  his 
sad  experience  had  taught  him  to  suspect  the  purity 
of  all  motives.  A  little  genuine  humility,  a  mod- 
erate degree  of  success,  achieved  in  some  other  way 


104 

than  by  attacking  and  overpowering  antagonists, 
would  have  made  him  a  happier,  wiser  and  better 
man.  He  dreaded  power  in  others,  because,  as  he 
confessed  to  me,  he  knew  its  baneful  effects  upon 
himself.  He  had  no  faith  in  men,  because  he  knew 
how  terrible  would  be  the  consequences  if  no  obstacle 
stood  between  men  and  the  accomplishment  of  their 
secret  desires.  He  startled  me  one  day  by  saying: 
"  How  long  do  you  think  you  would  live,  if  your 
enemies  had  their  way  with  you?  Perhaps  you 
think  you  have  no  enemies  who  hate  you  enough 
to  kill  you.  You  are  greatly  mistaken.  Every  man 
has  his  enemies.  I  have  them  by  the  thousand, 
and  you  have  them  too,  though  not  so  numerous  as 
mine.  Neither  your  enemies  nor  mine  would  run  the 
risk  of  murdering  us  in  open  day.  But  suppose  they 
could  kill  us  by  simply  wishing  it  ?  I  should  drop 
dead  in  my  tracks  before  your  eyes,  and  you,  quiet 
and  unknown  as  you  are,  would  fall  a  corpse  in  Main 
street  before  you  reached  home." 

He  owned  that  this  horrible  thought  had  been  put 
into  his  mind  by  some  writer  whom  he  had  that  day 
been  reading.  But  it  was  precisely  such  ideas  that 
fastened  themselves  in  his  memory.  He  brooded 
over  them  until  they  became  a  part  of  his  very 
being.  No  wonder  he  was  morbid ! 

Here  I  must  stop,  for  I  have  told  all,  or  nearly  all 
I  know  about  this  remarkable  man.  The  narrative 
has  spun  out  under  my  hand  to  a  length  very  much 
greater  than  I  intended  when  I  began  to  write.  But 
I  have  willingly  allowed  myself  to  go  on,  knowing 


105 

-.as  I  do  that  every  word  about  John  M.  Daniel  will 
be  read  with  interest  in  every  Southern  State.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  at  some  day  those  who  were  his 
intimate  friends  will  do  perfectly  what  I  have  done 
most  imperfectly,  for  lack  of  knowledge  on  the  one 
hand,  and  because  of  countless  interruptions  on  the 
other.  Written  piecemeal,  this  sketch  claims  no 
other  merit  than  a  faithful  account  of  my  acquaint- 
ance with  its  subject,  and  an  estimate,  which  I  deem 
to  be  just,  of  his  character.  I  trust  it  will  be  viewed 
in  this  light,  and  that  it  may  not  provoke  one  harsh 
criticism.  If  Messrs.  P.  H.  Aylett  and  T.  H.  Wynne, 
or  Doctors  Rawlings  and  Petticolas,  could  be  induced 
to  attempt  what  I  have  undertaken,  then  the  South- 
ern public  would  have  what  so  many  desire  to. see,  a 
full  length  portraiture  of  one  of  the  most  gifted  and 
brilliant  men  ever  born  on  Southern  soil. 

A  few  words  about  his  death,  and  I  have  done. 
Late  in  January,  1865,  he  was  attacked  the  second 
time  with  pneumonia.  Treated  promptly  by  skilful 
physicians,  his  disease  abated;  he  rallied,  and  was 
able  to  sit  up  and  attend  somewhat  to  his  duties. 
His  recovery  was  deemed  certain.  But,  as  the  event 
proved,  tubercles  were  developed  both  in  the  lungs 
and  in  the  mesenteric  glands.  The  patient  gradually 
grew  worse,  and  was  at  length  compelled  to  return 
to  his  bed.  The  slow  weeks  of  winter  wore  them- 
selves away.  How  they  passed,  I  cannot  tell,  for, 
although  I  made  frequent  calls  at  the  house  on  Broad 
street,  I  was  always  refused  admittance.  The  latch- 
iey  remained  unused  in  my  pocket.  Only  his  phy- 


106 

sicians  and  most  intimate  friends  were  admitted  to 
the  sick  man's  chamber.  On  one  occasion,  as  I  was 
told  by  a  Kentucky  member  of  the  Confederate 
Congress,  he  sent  for  the  Hon.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  and 
one  or  two  other  prominent  politicians,  and  told  them 
his  candid  opinion — that  the  Cause  was  hopeless,, 
and  that  the  only  course  left  to  us  was  "  reconstruc- 
tion on  the  best  terms  we  could  make." 

So  long  as  his  strength  permitted  him  to  take  an 
interest  in  any  earthly  thing,  he  had  the  welfare  of 
the  Southern  people  at  heart,  and  his  latest  effort 
seems  to  have  been  to  secure  by  negotiation  what  he 
was  persuaded  arms  could  not  achieve.  Those  who 
outlived  him  can  decide  for  themselves  whether  the 
conqueror  would  have  kept  the  faith  which  might 
have  been  plighted  at  Fortress  Monroe  better  than 
that  which  was  so  solemnly  pledged  at  Appomattox 
Court  House. 

As  spring  approached,  his  symptoms  became  alarm- 
ing. Ere  long,  it  was  whispered  on  the  streets  that 
his  situation  was  critical.  Relatives  and  friends 
proffered  every  assistance.  They  were  politely  but 
firmly  told  that  assistance  was  not  needed.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  be  "  sat  up  with."  His  only  attendant 
was  a  female  servant.  Once  or  twice,  perhaps  oftener, 
he  requested  his  faithful  manager,  Walker,  to  sleep 
in  an  adjoining  room ;  but  Walker  was  hardly  warm 
in  his  bed  before  he  was  aroused  by  a  message  to  the 
effect  that  Mr.  Daniel  wished  to  see  him.  Hurrying 
on  his  clothes,  he  would  go  at  once  to  the  dying 


10T 

man's  bed,  where,  in  a  feeble  voice,  this  strange  an- 
nouncement would  be  made  to  him : 

"  Walker,  you  must  really  pardon  rne,  but  the  truth 
is,  that  the  very  fact  of  your  being  in  the  house 
makes  me  so  nervous  that  I  cannot  rest.  Please  ga 
home." 

Home  the  manager  of  the  Examiner  would  go, 
sometimes  long  after  midnight,  leaving  the  sufferer 
to  his  own  thoughts.  What  those  were,  no  man  will 
ever  tell,  for  none  ever  knew.  He  must  have  known 
that  his  days  were  numbered,  for  when  he  received 
a  bouquet  of  the  earliest  spring  flowers  sent  him  by 
the  daughter  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Wynne,  he  took  it  in 
his  wasted  hand,  returned  his  thanks  for  the  gift,  and 
then  laid  it  aside,  murmuring  "too  late  now;  too 
late!" 

The  editorial  conduct  of  the  Examiner  had 
been  in  the  exclusive  charge  of  John  Mitchell  for 
many  weeks.  Daniel  no  longer  concerned  himself 
about  it.  His  will  was  made ;  he  was  ready  to  de- 
part. His  physicians  knew  he  could  not  live,  but 
they  expected  him  to  linger  ten  days  or  a  fortnight 
longer.  Plied  with  stimulants,  he  might  bear  up 
yet  a  good  while.  But  the  last  hour  was  at  hand. 
The  exact  circumstances  of  his  death,  as  told  to  me, 
are  these.  On  making  his  usual  morning  call,  Dr. 
Rawlings  found  his  friend's  pulse  sinking  rapidly, 
No  stimulant  being  at  hand,  the  supply  in  the  house 
having  been  exhausted,  he  dispatched  a  servant  in 
all  haste  to  get  a  bottle  of  French  brandy.  It  was 
quickly  brought.  When  it  came,  he  proceeded  forth- 


108  JOHN  M.  DANIEL'S  LATCH-KEY. 

with  to  make  a  strong  toddy.  The  patient  was  then 
lying  close  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  bed.  Dr.  Haw- 
lings  stood  some  distance  off,  near  the  window,  stir- 
ring the  toddy.  Suddenly  his  attention  was  aroused 
by  a  noise  behind  him.  Looking  quickly  in  that 
direction,  he  saw  that  the  patient  had,  by  a  strong 
effort,  turned  himself  over  and  lay  on  his  back  in  the 
middle  of  the  bed,  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  arms 
folded  on  his  breast.  Thinking  that  he  was  praying, 
he  would  not  disturb  him,  but  continued  to  stir  the 
toddy  a  few  minutes  longer,  so  as  to  give  him  time 
to  finish  his  prayer.  A  sufficient  time  having  elapsed 
.and  the  need  of  a  stimulant  being  urgent,  the  Doctor 
went  to  the  bed  side  and  leaned  over. 
John  M.  Daniel  was  not  in  this  world ! 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 


[The  following  sketch  was  written  and  published  some  time  iu 
the  fifties,  when  there  may  have  been  more  to  excuse  its  extrava- 
gancies than  now.  The  satire  amused  the  public,  and  no  portion 
of  it  more  than  the  gentlemen  who  were  the  object  of  it.] 

THE  Yirginia  Editor  is  a  young,  unmarried,  in- 
temperate, pugnacious,  gambling  gentleman. 
Between  drink  and  dueling-pistols  lie  is  generally  es- 
corted to  a  premature  grave.  If  he  so  far  withstands 
the  ravages  of  brandy  and  gunpowder  as  to  reach  the 
period  of  gray  hairs  and  cautiousness,  he  is  deposed 
to  make  room  for  a  youth  who  hates  his  life  with  an 
utter  hatred,  and  who  can't  keep  drunk  more  than  a 
week  at  a  time. 

Deposed,  he  becomes  a  literary  ostrich,  and  may 
be  seen,  with  swollen  red  nose  and  diminished,  calf- 
less  shanks,  migrating  from  court-house  to  court- 
house, laying  a  newspaper  egg,  which  he  leaves  to 
be  hatched  into  life  and  permanence  by  the  pecu- 
niary warmth  of  the  party  to  whom  he  sells  out  at  a 
small  advance.  Or  he  gets  the  lofty  position  of  clerk 
in  Washington.  Should  he,  by  rare  good  luck  and 
the  miraculous  interposition  of  Providence,  have 
saved  any  money,  he  buys  a  property  in  the  country, 
retires  to  it,  debauches  himself  with  miscellaneous 
literature,  lounges  much  and  does  a  great  deal  of 


110  THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 

nothing  at  all.  Should  he  get  married,  he  sinks  into 
an  obscure  and  decent  citizen,  and  looks  back  upon 
Ms  early  career  as  a  horrid  dream. 

Previous  to  his  death,  the  Virginia  editor  makes 
the  most  of  the  short  time  allotted  to  him  on  earth 
by  living  at  a  suicidal  velocity.  To  test  the  strength 
•of  his  constitution,  by  subjecting  it  to  the  influence 
of  the  most  destructive  habits  and  agencies,  appears 
to  be  his  sole  pleasure  and  aim.  He  is  determined 
not  to  live  longer  than  he  can  possibly  help.  A  quiet 
death  at  a  ripe  old  age  he  regards  as  a  disgrace. 

His  first  waking  moments  in  the  morning  are  sat- 
urated with  a  number  of  powerful  cocktails,  to  cure 
a  headache,  "  brought  over,"  as  an  accountant  would 
say,  from  the  previous  midnight.  Cocktailed  past 
the  point  of  nervousness  and  remorse,  he  dresses 
himself  and  wends  his  way  to  a  barber  shop  to  get 
.shaved,  if  he  shaves  at  all.  Not  unfrequently  he  has 
himself  shaved  in  bed.  Breakfast  succeeds,  and  then, 
with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  he  enters  his  sanctum  and 
goes  to  work :  which  work  consists  in  hunting  for  in- 
sults in  his  exchanges,  and  in  laying  the  foundation, 
by  means  of  a  scathing  article,  of  a  future  duel. 
'While  employed  upon  his  leading  article  he  suffers 
no  interruption,  except  from  the  gentleman  who 
brings  a  note  from  another  gentleman,  whom  he  (the 
editor)  grossly  insulted  at  an  oyster  supper  the  night 
before.  Having  no  earthly  recollection  of  any  such 
occurrence,  the  editor  feels  no  hesitation  (unless  he 
happens  to  be  unusually  bilious,  or  has  no  "  affair " 
upon  his  hands),  in  saying  that  he  "  fully  and  frankly 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  Ill 

withdraws  any  and  every  expression  reflecting  upon 
the  character  of  the  gentleman,  as  a  gentleman  and  a 
man  of  honor." 

His  editorial  labors  vary  from  five  minutes  to  two 
hours  and  a  half  in  duration.  If  he  feels  very  badly 
he  won't  write  at  all,  but  goes  armed  with  a  stick  to 
a  neighboring  law  ofiice,  and  threatens  the  occupant 
with  a  caning  unless  he  has  a  spicy  article  in  the  com- 
positor's hands  by  such  an  hour.  The  unhappy  bar- 
rister complies,  and  spices  the  editor  into  a  scrape,  for 
which  the  editor  is  unaffectedly  thankful,  swearing  he 
would  die  without  excitement. 

Before  leaving  his  sanctum  he  answers  a  couple  of 
letters  which  arrived  by  the  last  mail.  He  engages 
to  meet  "  the  gallant  Democracy  of  -  -  district," 
and  to  address  them  on  "  August  court-day."  He  as- 
sures a  "constant  reader"  that  "the  glorious  cause  is 
prospering,  the  skies  brightening;"  and  suggests,  as 
the  best  means  of  putting  the  issue  of  the  canvass — 
"the  most  momentous  canvass  that  ever  occurred  in 
the  history  of  the  Republic  " — beyond  a  doubt,  that 
the  "  constant  reader"  shall  send  in  ten  new  subscrib- 
ers to  the  Keepa  P'dchinin .  He  then  huddles  a  shirt,  a 
case  of  dueling  pistols,  and  a  bottle  of  "Otard"  into 
a  small  trunk,  and  goes  to  the  telegraph  office  to  no- 
tify a  brother  editor  that  he  will  be  in  Washington 
to-morrow  night,  waiting  for  him  at  the  National 
Hotel.  His  mind  being  thus  relieved  of  business,  he 
has  nothing  to  do  but  to  wander  off  to  his  hotel,  to 
look  at  the  register  and  see  if  anybody  has  come. 
Meets  there  with  another  editor — a  red-headed  pro- 


112  THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 

vincial  fresh  from  the  mountains,  and  already  heavily 
laden  with  "  rifle  whisky  " — with  whom  he  proceeds, 
without  delay,  to  drink  juleps  and  talk  politics  until 
dinner-time. 

After  dinner  he  borrows  twice  as  much  money  as 
will  take  him  to  Washington  and  back,  reserving  the 
surplus  to  bet  that  night  at  the  faro-bank. 

In  his  personal  appearance,  the  Virginia  editor  vi- 
brates between  positive  gentility  and  absolute  shab- 
biness,  and  this  irrespective  of  his  condition  as  to 
"funds."  At  times  he  is  smooth  and  clean  of  face, 
immaculate  in  shirt,  perfect  of  boot  and  hat ;  at 
others  he  is  great  in  beard  and  dirt,  resembling  an 
uncleansed  pressman,  or  a  pirate  who  has  cruised  for 
years  upon  an  ocean  of  ink.  He  rarely  buys  clothes 
until  he  is  in  immediate  need  of  them ;  and,  inasmuch 
as  he  lives  all  over  the  State,  is  quite  as  apt  to  have 
on  somebody  else's  clothes  as  his  own.  He  despises 
a  fashionable,  dandified  man  as  he  does  a  man  who 
drinks  weak  drinks.  He  vindicates  his  Democracy, 
even  in  his  liquor ;  believes  in  good  old  brandy  or 
whisky,  calls  them  "strict  construction  drinks,"  while 
malt  liquors  he  stigmatizes  as  "  compromise  drinks," 
and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  except  to 
"taper  off"  on. 

There  is  nothing  in  his  form  or  features  to  distin- 
guish him  from  other  men.  A  physiognomist  might, 
perhaps,  detect  in  his  face  a  bloody  good-nature — an 
amiability  easily  kindled  into  anger — as  if  the  fierce 
animal  instincts  of  the  man  were  but  imperfectly  sub- 
dued by  the  pressure  of  social  refinements.. 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  113 

His  negligence  in  dress  is  not  greater  than  his 
carelessness  with  regard  to  another  comfort  which 
the  majorit}7  of  mankind  deem  essential  to  happiness. 
He  will  live  upon  the  best  of  food,  will  drink  the 
best  liquors,  and  smoke  the  finest  cigars,  but  is  ut- 
terly indifferent  as  to  where  or  how  he  sleeps,  pro- 
vided he  has  a  bed-fellow ;  for  he  is  greatly  social, 
and  cannot  bear  ever  to  be  alone.  E~o  respectable 
young  man  living  in  the  same  city  is  secure  against 
an  invasion  of  the  editor  at  the  most  inopportune 
hours  of  the  night.  How  many  sweet  dreams  have 
been  rudely  broken  by  his  assaults  upon  the  front- 
door, or  his  noisy  escalade  of  the  back-window,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  tell. 

He  has  a  room  of  his  own,  originally  furnished 
with  some  taste  and  care,  but  has  a  mortal  antipathy 
to  sleeping  in  it.  Nor  is  this  aversion  to  be  won- 
dered at.  Through  a  puddle  of  newspapers,  con- 
gressional speeches,  tobacco  juice,  cigar  stumps, 
broken  spit-boxes,  and  pipesterns,  he  wades  to  a  bed 
whose  sheets  bade  adieu  to  the  washerwoman  at  a 
period  too  remote  to  be  recalled,  and  whose  counter- 
pane secretes  its  primitive  tints  under  a  sweet  and 
greasy  scum  of  spermaceti  and  spilled  brandy  toddies. 
A  candle-stand  is  drawn  conveniently  near  the  yel- 
low pillow,  and  on  it  lie,  disorderly,  a  candle  burned 
to  the  socket,  a  fragmentary  volume  of  Byron,  a  plug 
of  tobacco,  a  cork  (fellow  to  others  on  the  floor),  an 
inkstand  without  any  ink  in  it,  and  a  foolscap  scrap 
of  unfinished  editorial.  Upon  the  window-sill,  near 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  stands  marshaled  a  platoon  of 
8 


114:  THE  VIRGINIA   EDITOR. 

various-sized  bottles,  from  the  grenadier  champagne 
to  the  squatty  porter  and  the  slab-sided  tickler.  In 
the  little  wardrobe  are  no  clothes,  except  a  skeleton 
waistcoat  gibbeted  upon  a  broken  hook,  but  a  num- 
ber of  empty  cigar-boxes,  a  bowie-knife  and  a  revol- 
ver. In  the  waistcoat  pocket  may  be  found  a  free 
railroad  ticket,  which  ticket  he  never  presents,  for  the 
conductors  are  much  better  acquainted  with  him  than 
with  the  schedule.  The  odor  of  this  apartment  is  not 
inviting.  The  door  is  always  open,  night  and  day, 
and  it  is  the  common  dormitory  of  all  belated  roy- 
sterers.  Any  one  may  sleep  here  who  chooses. 

Notwithstanding  his  habits,  the  editor  obtains  a 
popularity  wholly  disproportioned,  one  would  say,  to 
his  merits.  That  he  should  achieve  notoriety  is  no 
matter  for  surprise,  when  every  number  of  every  pa- 
per issued  in  the  State  contains  the  name  of  Derringer 
Thundergust,  or  William  Jeems  Rawhead,  as  princi- 
pal, second,  or  adjustant  of  some  personal  difficulty ; 
but  notoriety  is  one  thing  and  popularity  another 
and  very  different  thing. 

Habits  which  would  outlaw  any  other  man  enable 
him  to  ride  rough-shod  over  the  inviolable  law  of 
custom.  Conduct  which  would  damn  a  man  in  busi- 
ness endears  him  to  men  in  whose  creed  "  strict 
business  habits  "  rank  next  to,  if  they  do  not  take 
precedence  of,  godliness.  Grave  men — the  slaves  of 
routine  and  propriety — appear  to  take  the  same  de- 
light in  witnessing  his  unbridled  eccentricities  that 
inspired  the  poet  Job  when  contemplating  the  gam- 
bols of  the  wild  ass.  There  is  an  airy  bravado  in  his 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  115 

outrages,  a  gay  candor  and  naturalness  in  his  excesses, 
which  extract  all  their  sting.  As  soon  quarrel  with 
the  habits  of  a  strange  bird  as  with  those  of  a  being 
who  is  not  a  man,  but  an  editor,  and  to  whom  no 
gauge  of  human  morals  is  in  any  particular  appli- 
cable. 

His  abhorrence  of  the  vice  of  solitary  drinking  has 
a  good  deal  to  do  with  this  popularity.  Scarcely  a 
respectable  citizen  can  be  found  in  the  commonwealth 
with  whom  he  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  hob- 
nobbed in  a  friendly  manner.  Rather  than  drink 
alone  he  will  drink  with  a  negro,  provided  the  negro 
is  at  all  genteel,  and  has  a  gentleman  for  his  master. 
His  Ethiopian  popularity  is  immense.  It  could 
hardly  be  otherwise  when,  from  the  White  Sulphur 
Springs  to  the  city  of  Norfolk,  he  has  repeatedly 
and  extravagantly  feed  everything  answering  to  the 
name  of  "  waiter." 

The  Virginia  editor  is  not  a  pious,  nor,  strictly 
speaking,  a  gallant  man.  Women,  children,  and 
preachers  he  classes  under  the  common  head  of 
"  non-combatants,"  and  views  them  pretty  much  in 
the  light  in  which  he  regards  flies — as  species  of  not 
very  harmful,  somewhat  abundant  insects,  perhaps 
useful,  but  whose  uses  are  not  yet  well  understood. 
Still,  he  makes  it  a  point  of  honor  to  place  implicit 
faith  in  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion  and  the 
virtue  of  women ;  and  while  he  regards  the  softer 
sex  as,  at  best,  beautiful  toys,  they  are  glass  toys, 
and  he  treads  respectfully  and  gingerly  among  the 
frail  vessels.  He  clings  with  sectarian  tenacity  to 


116  THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 

the  belief  in  future  rewards  and  punishments ;  he  is- 
too  brave  and  resentful  a  man  to  think  otherwise. 
A  disbelief  in  hell  he  denounces  as  the  "poltroon- 
ery of  infidelity,"  nor  can  any  casuistry  convince  him 
that  a  man  is  not  as  responsible  for  his  faith  as  he  i& 
for  his  actions. 

He  loves  to  talk,  and  his  great  theme,  after  poli- 
tics, is  himself.  In  himself  he  has  the  most  un- 
bounded confidence — a  confidence  which,  in  the  most 
trying  emergencies,  scarcely  ever  deserts  him. 
Through  difficulties  that  would  appall  and  crush  or- 
dinary men,  he  moves  with  the  smiling  abandon  of 
a  knight-errant  pricking  onward  to  meet  a  dragon, 
gorgon,  or  chimera  dire.  Only  in  moments  of  ex- 
treme nervous  depression  will  he  admit  himself  not 
competent  to  the  discharge  of  the  most  arduous  and 
varied  duties  of  life,  and  especially  of  those  duties 
for  which  he  is  evidently  unfitted.  He  looks  upon 
himself  as  pre-eminently  a  man  of  business — a  prac- 
tical man.  Rothschild  was  not  his  equal  in  finan- 
ciering ability  ;  Napoleon  nor  Hampden  could  have 
wearied  him  in  work ;  Halifax  was  not  his  superior 
in  political  sagacity.  Name  any  man  who  has  suc- 
ceeded or  failed  in  any  undertaking,  he  will  instantly 
unfold  to  you  the  secret  of  his  success,  or  the  over- 
sight which  led  to  his  downfall. 

"  But  for  cards  and  liquor,"  himself  would  have 
excelled  any  man  of  his  acquaintance ;  as  it  is,  see 
how  well  he  gets  along  in  the  world.  In  truth,  his 
mind  is  strictly  of  the  "nil  admirari"  order;  he 
worships  no  man ;  and  his  regard  for  himself  is  only 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  117 

a  reluctant  indulgence  accorded  not  to  what  lie  is, 
but  to  what  he  ought  to  be,  and  would  be,  "  but  for 
cards  and  liquor." 

For  this  remarkable  self-confidence  he  is  indebted 
partly  to  a  nature  eminently  high-spirited,  and  partly 
to  his  position.  Like  the  driver  of  a  locomotive,  he 
wields  a  power  infinitely  greater  than  his  own.  He 
handles  the  lever  that  unlooses  the  throttle-valve  of 
the  mightiest  engine  on  earth,  and  it  is  but  natural 
that  he  should  confound  derived  with  individual 
power.  Disconnect  him  from  his  engine,  let  him 
conduct  a  business,  other  than  his  own,  upon  the 
same  loose  principles,  he  would  soon  discover  his 
errror.  But  then  he  would  lose  one  of  his  most 
delightful  traits. 

The  Virginia  editor  is  not  a  profoundly  learned 
man;  he  is  not  even  a  smatterer,  in  the  sense,  at 
least,  in  which  that  equivocal  compliment  was  paid 
to  Milton.  His  specialty  is  politics ;  and  his  tastes 
not  less  than  his  occupation  conspire  to  prevent  his 
acquiring  any  other  knowledge.  Of  Latin  he  re- 
members a  few  terms,  such  as  "  ex  post  facto "  and 
"  ex  parte"  which  he  picked  up  while  drifting,  for  a 
few  weeks,  through  a  law  office.  Of  Greek  he  re- 
tains nearly  the  whole  alphabet,  being  only  a  little 
uncertain  as  to  the  relative  shapes  of  Zeta  and  Xi, 
and  confusing  Phi  with  Psi.  His  stock  of  poetry 
consists  of  a  few  scraps  of  Hudibras,  Byron,  and 
Peter  Pindar ;  he  has,  besides,  a  professional  pride 
and  tenderness  for  the  quatrain  commencing : 
"  Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  will  rise  again  I  " 


118  THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  restrain  him  from  quoting 
this  occasionally,  and,  if  it  were  possible,  it  would 
be  cruel. 

His  historical  information  does  not  extend  quite 
to  the  times  of  the  Ach^an  League  and  the  Amphic- 
tyonic  Council,  but  dates  rather  from  the  Resolu- 
tions of  '98.  With  the  wordings  of  the  American 
government,  from  its  inception  down  to  the  present 
time;  with  the  character,  and,  to  an  extent,  with 
the  writings  of  the  great  men  who  took  prominent 
part  in  its  formation ;  with  the  policy  of  the  party 
leaders;  with  the  politicians,  great  and  small,  of  his 
own  times,  and  with  their  tactics,  he  is  intimately 
familiar.  In  fact,  his  attainments  may  be  summed 
up  in  the  word  "  politics ;"  for  while  he  does  not  un- 
derrate those  who  understand  and  take  an  interest  in 
Belles  Lettres  and  the  Arts  and  Sciences,  he  frankly 
confesses  that  he  knows  and  cares  nothing  about  them 
himself.  So  fitted  is  he  for  partisan  journalism,  and 
so  wedded  to  it,  that  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  divine 
economy  has  set  apart  some  waste  democratic  star, 
some  uncleared  portion  of  the  celestial  public  domain, 
some  half-settled  nebulous  Kansas  as  a  newspaper 
heaven  for  him  and  his  fellows.  Elsewhere  no  con- 
ceivable use  could  be  found  for  them. 

His  style  in  writing  varies  from  the  plainest  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  the  most  gorgeous  highfalutin.  In  gen- 
eral, however,  he  makes  use  of  ordinary  English,  and 
cares  little  or  nothing  about  nicety  and  finish.  He 
is  better  at  repartee  than  at  argument,  but  prefers 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  119 

hard  talk  to  the  most  polished  wit.  His  humor  is 
peculiar,  and  considerably  wider  than  it  is  subtle. 

It  has  been  said  by  some  that  the  Virginia  editor 
is  chosen  rather  for  the  stoutness  of  his  heart  than 
for  the  brilliancy  of  his  intellect,  and,  to  be  honest, 
there  is  some  truth  in  the  allegation.  A  newspaper, 
to  be  successful  in  the  Old  Dominion,  must  not  be 
defective  in  what  they  call  chivalry;  and  a  long- 
established  paper,  having  the  prestige  of  high-toned 
valor,  would  hardly  employ  a  ready-writing  craven 
in  preference  to  a  brave  gentleman  less  facile  with 
the  pen.  But  the  requirements  of  the  public  in  this 
regard,  and  the  usages  of  the  papers,  have  been  a 
thought  exaggerated. 

It  is  not  true,  for  example,  that  the  man-of-all- 
work,  the  "Caesar"  of  the  office,  who  is  employed  to 
sweep  out  the  old  papers  and  trash  in  the  morning, 
receives  an  additional  compensation  for  sweeping  in 
the  dead  editors  lying  about  the  door,  who  have 
been  killed  at  various  places  during  the  night  and 
brought  there,  as  to  a  Morgue,  for  recognition  and 
distribution.  Neither  is  it  true  that  a  paper,  in  order 
to  keep  up  its  circulation,  must  have  at  least  one 
editor  killed  a  day,  and  that  papers  having  secured 
a  good  editor,  one  whom  they  are  unwilling  to  lose, 
are  in  the  habit  of  imposing  upon  the  public  by 
buying  up  worthless  wretches  to  assassinate  in  place 
of  him.  Equally  unfounded  is  the  report  that  papers 
impoverished  and  doing  a  small  business  are  forced 
to  practice  the  contemptible  fraud  of  substituting 
wooden  dummies,  manikins,  or  lay  figures  in  place 


120  THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR. 

of  bona  fide  corpses.  These  reports  have  reference, 
doubtless,  to  States  farther  South  than  Virginia. 

A  propensity  for  gaming  is  a  part  of  the  editor's 
constitution — an  hereditary  taint,  for  which  he  is  no 
more  responsible  than  for  the  age  of  his  grand- 
father, and  which  he  could  as  easily  get  rid  of  as  re- 
move the  shape  of  his  legs.  The  affliction  being 
eminently  genteel,  he  not  only  bears  up  under  it 
with  manly  fortitude,  but  cherishes  it  with  much  re- 
gard. He  is  not  much  of  a  hand  at  "  short  cards." 
His  delight  is  to  be  seated  over  against  a  grim,  im- 
perturbable faro-dealer — to  have  bets  of  "red 
checks"  all  over  the  table — half  a  dozen  "piddlers" 
of  "white  chips"  to  be  leaning  over  his  shoulder 
and  admiring  his  nerve — a  negro  to  be  patiently 
awaiting  the  end  of  the  *.!eal  to  hand  him  a  brandy 
toddy  on  a  silver  waiter — for  the  game  to  be  stoutly 
contested,  and  himself  to  "come  out  right  smartly 
winner."  He  has  no  great  faith  in  "cases,"  but  be- 
lieves in  betting  on  three  cards  at  a  time,  and  has  a 
special  hankering  for  "  the  pot." 

After  all,  and  in  spite  of  his  many  faults,  the  Vir- 
ginia Editor  is  a  gentleman.  He  comes  of  a  good 
stock,  and,  however  wild  he  may  be,  never  disgraces 
it  by  a  low  or  mean  action.  His  vices  are  not  those 
of  a  groveling  spirit.  If  his  temper  is  hot,  it  is  not 
implacable;  if  his  resentment  is  quick,  it  never 
seeks  an  under-handed  revenge.  If  he  prefers  a 
clean  bullet-hole  to  a  fisticuffish  bruising  or  mang- 
ling with  a  bludgeon,  that  is  his  own  concern.  If 
he  is  a  sturdy  partisan,  he  is  above  the  venality  and 


THE  VIRGINIA  EDITOR.  121 

the  trimming  which  disgraces  the  journalism  of 
States  nearer  the  pole  than  his  own.  If  he  drinks 
too  much,  it  is  because  the  liquor  he  uses  is  of  the 
best  quality.  If  he  gambles,  it  is  because  he  can't 
help  it.  If  he  lives  something  beyond  his  income, 
he  is  doing  no  more  than  all  enlightened  nations  and 
the  majority  of  great  men  have  done  and  continue 
to  do.  His  tastes  are  lavish.  An  imperial  gallon 
cannot  be  contained  in  a  quart  pot.  And  what  po- 
litical fabric  was  ever  reared  or  maintained  in  its 
integrity  without  the  aid  of  an  occasional  loan  ?  If 
he  is  not  a  very  good  citizen,  it  is  because  he  wants 
to  be  a  better  editor. 

Finally,  half  an  ounce  of  lead  is  "honorably  and 
satisfactorily  adjusted  "  in  his  heart  or  brain,  and  the 
Virginia  Editor  dies,  to  the  great  joy  of  himself  and 
to  the  intense  grief  of  his  party, — the  faro-dealers, 
the  bar-keepers,  and  of  every  body  who  is  entitled 
to  an  unexpected  fifty  cents  simply  because  he  is  a 
negro  and  can  run  an  errand.  The  no  longer  belli- 
gerent remains  are  attended  to  the  tomb  by  an  im- 
mense concourse  of  citizens  of  all  parties,  and  the 
epitaph,  stale  but  true,  is,  that  "the  community 
-could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES: 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  TBAVEL  IN  THE  OLD  DAYS  ON  THE  JAMES  RIVEB 
AND  KANAWHA  CANAL. 


AMONG  my  earliest  recollections  is  a  trip  from 
Cumberland  County  to  Lynchburg,  in  1835, 
or  thereabouts.  As  the  stage  approached  Glover's 
tavern  in  Appomattox  county,  sounds  as  of  a  can- 
nonade aroused  my  childish  curiosity  to  a  high  pitch. 
I  had  been  reading  Parley's  History  of  America,  and 
this  must  be  the  noise  of  actual  battle.  Yes ;  the  war 
against  the  hateful  Britishers  must  have  broken  out 
again.  Would  the  stage  carry  us  within  range  of  the 
cannon  balls  ?  Yes,  and  presently  the  red-coats  would 
come  swarming  out  of  the  woods.  And — and — Gen. 
Washington  was  dead;  I  was  certain  of  that;  what 
would  become  of  us?  I  was  terribly  excited,  but 
afraid  to  ask  questions.  Perhaps  I  was  scared.. 
Would  they  kill  an  unarmed  boy,  sitting  peacably 
in  a  stage  coach  ?  Of  course  they  would ;  Britishers 
will  do  anything !  Then  they  will  have  to  shoot  a 
couple  of  men  first; — and  I  squeezed  still  closer  be- 
tween them. 

My  relief  and  my  disappointment  were   equally 
great,  when  a  casual  remark  unfolded  the  fact  that  the 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  123 

noise  which  so  excited  me  was  only  the  "  blasting  of 
rock  on  the  Jeems  and  Kanawha  Canell."  What  was 
"blasting  of  rock?" 

What  was  a  "  canell  ?"  and,  above  all,  what  man- 
ner of  thing  was  a  "  Jeerns  and  Kanawha  Canell?" 
Was  it  alive  ? 

I  think  it  was ;  more  alive  than  it  has  ever  been 
since,  except  for  the  first  few  years  after  it  was  opened. 

Those  were  the  "  good  old  days  "  of  batteaux, — 
picturesque  craft  that  charmed  my  young  eyes  more 
than  all  the  gondolas  of  Venice  would  do  now.  True, 
they  consumed  a  week  in  getting  from  Lynchburg  to 
Richmond,  and  ten  days  in  returning  against  the 
stream,  but  what  of  that  ?  Time  was  abundant  in 
those  days.  It  was  made  for  slaves,  and  we  had  the 
slaves.  A  batteau  on  the  water  was  more  than  a 
match  for  the  best  four  or  six  horse  bell-team  that 
ever  rolled  over  the  red  clay  of  Bedford,  brindle  dog 
and  tar-bucket  included. 

Fleets  of  these  batteaux  used  to  be  moored  on  the 
river  bank  near  where  the  depot  of  the  Virginia  and 
Tennessee  Railroad  now  stands ;  and  many  years  after 
the  "Jeems  and  Kanawha"  was  finished,  one  of  them 
used  to  haunt  the  mouth  of  Blackwater  creek  above 
the  toll-bridge,  a  relic  of  departed  glory.  For  if 
ever  man  gloried  in  his  calling, — the  negro  batteau- 
man  was  that  man.  His  was  a  hardy  calling,  de- 
manding skill,  courage  and  strength  in  a  high  degree. 
I  can  see  him  now  striding. the  plank  that  ran  along 
the  gunwale  to  afford  him  footing,  his  long  iron-shod 
pole  trailing  in  the  water  behind  him.  Now  he  turns,- 


124:  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

and  after  one  or  two  ineffectual  efforts  to  get  his  pole 
fixed  in  the  rocky  bottom  of  the  river,  secures  his 
purchase,  adjusts  the  upper  part  of  the  pole  to  the 
pad  at  his  shoulder,  bends  to  his  task,  and  the  long, 
but  not  ungraceful  bark  mounts  the  rapids  like  a  sea- 
bird  breasting  the  storm.  His  companion  on  the 
other  side  plies  the  pole  with  equal  ardor,  and  be- 
tween the  two  the  boat  bravely  surmounts  every 
obstacle,  be  it  rocks,  rapids,  quicksands,  hammocks, 
what  not.  A  third  negro  at  the  stern  held  the 
mighty  oar  that  served  as  a  rudder.  A  stalwart, 
jolly,  courageous  set  they  were,  plying  the  pole  all 
day,  hauling  in  to  shore  at  night  under  the  friendly 
shade  of  a  mighty  sycamore,  to  rest,  to  eat,  to  play 
the  banjo,  and  to  snatch  a  few  hours  of  profound, 
blissful  sleep. 

The  up-cargo,  consisting  of  sacks  of  salt,  bags  of 
coffee,  barrels  of  sugar,  molasses  and  whiskey,  af- 
forded good  pickings.  These  sturdy  fellows  lived 
well,  I  promise  you,  and  if  they  stole  a  little,  why, 
what  was  their  petty  thieving  compared  to  the  enor- 
mous pillage  of  the  modern  sugar  refiner  and  the 
-crooked-whiskey  distiller  ?  They  lived  well.  Their 
cook's  galley  was  a  little  dirt  thrown  between  the 
ribs  of  the  boat  at  the  stern,  with  an  awning  on  oc- 
casion to  keep  off  the  rain,  and  what  they  didn't  eat 
wasn't  worth  eating.  Fish  of  the  very  best,  both 
salt  and  fresh,  chickens,  eggs,  milk  and  the  invinci- 
ble, never-satisfying  ash-cake  and  fried  bacon.  I  see 
the  frying-pan,  I  smell  the  meat,  the  fish,  the  Rio 
.coffee  ! — I  want  the  batteau  back  again,  aye  !  and  the 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  125 

brave,  light-hearted  slave  to  boot.  What  did  he 
know  about  the  State  debt?  There  was  no  State 
debt  to  speak  of.  Greenbacks?  Bless,  you!  the 
Farmers  Bank  of  Yirginia  was  living  and  breathing, 
and  its  money  was  good  enough  for  a  king.  Re- 
adjustment, funding  bill,  tax-receivable  coupons — 
where  were  all  these  worries  then  ?  I  think  if  we 
had  known  they  were  coming,  we  would  have  stuck 
to  the  batteaux  and  never  dammed  the  river.  Why,. 
shad  used  to  run  to  Lynchburg!  The  world  was 
merry,  butter-milk  was  abundant;  Lynchburg  a  lad, 
Richmond  a  mere  youth,  and  the  great  "  Jeems  and 
Kanawha  canell"  was  going  to — oh!  it  was  going  to 
do  everything. 

This  was  forty  years  ago  and  more,  mark  you. 

In  1838, 1  made  my  first  trip  to  Richmond.  What 
visions  of  grandeur  filled  my  youthful  imagination  ! 
That  eventually  I  should  get  to  be  a  man  seemed 
probable,  but  that  I  should  ever  be  big  enough  to 
live,  actually  live,  in  the  vast  metropolis,  was  beyond 
my  dreams.  For  I  believed  fully  that  men  were 
proportioned  to  the  size  of  the  cities  they  lived  in. 
I  had  seen  a  man  named  Hatcher  from  Cartersville, 
who  was  near  about  the  size  of  the  average  man  in 
Lynchburg,  but  as  I  had  never  seen  Cartersville,  I 
concluded,  naturally  enough,  that  Cartersville  must 
be  equal  in  population.  Which  may  be  the  fact,  for 
I  have  never  yet  seen  Cartersville,  though  I  have 
been  to  Warminster,  and  once  came  near  passing 
through  Bent-Creek. 

I  went  by  stage. 


126  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

It  took  two  days  to  make  the  trip,  yet  no  one  com- 
plained, although  there  were  many  Methodist  min- 
isters aboard.  Bro.  Lafferty  had  not  been  born.  I 
thought  it  simply  glorious.  There  was  an  unnatural 
preponderance  of  preacher  to  boy — nine  of  preacher 
to  one  of  boy.  That  boy  did  not  take  a  leading  part 
in  the  conversation.  He  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  thought  much  about  Richmond.  And  what  a 
wonderful  world  it  was  !  So  many  trees,  such  nice 
Tocks,  and  pretty  ruts  in  the  red  clay ;  such  glorious 
taverns,  and  men  with  red  noses;  such  splendid 
horses,  a  fresh  team  every  ten  miles,  and  an  elegant 
smell  of  leather,  proceeding  from  the  coach,  prevail- 
ing everywhere  as  we  bowled  merrily  along.  And 
then  the  stage  horn.  Let  me  not  speak  of  it,  lest 
Thomas  and  his  orchestra  hang  their  heads  for  very 
shame.  I  wish  somebody  would  tell  me  where  we 
stopped  the  first  night,  for  I  have  quite  forgotten. 
Any  how,  it  was  on  the  left-hand  side  coming  down, 
and  I  rather  think  on  the  brow  of  a  little  hill.  I 
know  we  got  up  mighty  soon  the  next  morning. 

We  drew  up  at  the  Eagle  hotel  in  Richmond. 
Here  again  words,  and  time  too,  fail  me.  All  the 
cities  on  earth  packed  into  one  wouldn't  look  as  big 
and  fine  to  me  now  as  Main  street  did  then.  If 
things  shrink  so  in  the  brief  space  of  a  life- time, 
what  would  be  the  general  appearance,  say  of  Peters- 
burg, if  one  should  live  a  million  or  so  of  years  ? 
This  is  an  interesting  question,  which  you  may  dis- 
cuss with  yourself,  dear  reader. 

Going  northward,  I  remained  a  year  or  two,  and 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  127 

on  my  return  the  "  canell "  was  finished.  I  had  seen 
bigger  places  than  Richmond,  but  had  yet  to  have 
.my  first  experience  of  canal  travelling.  The  packet- 
landing  at  the  foot  of  Eighth  street  presented  a  scene 
of  great  activity.  Passengers  on  foot  and  in  vehicles 
continued  to  arrive  up  to  the  moment  of  starting.  I 
took  a  peep  at  the  cabin,  wondering  much  how  all 
the  passengers  were  to  be  accommodated  for  the 
night,  saw  how  nicely  the  baggage  was  stored  away 
on  deck,  admired  the  smart  waiters,  and  picked  up  a 
-deal  of  information  generally.  I  became  acquainted 
with  the  names  of  Edmond  &  Davenport  in  Rich- 
mond, and  Boyd,  Edmond  &  Davenport  in  Lynch- 
burg,  the  owners  of  the  packet-line,  and  thought 
to  myself,  "  What  immensely  rich  men  they  must 
be  !  Why,  these  boats  cost  ten  times  as  much  as  a 
stage-coach,  and  I  am  told  they  have  them  by  the 
dozen." 

At  last  we  were  off,  slowly  pushed  along  under 
the  bridge  on  Seventh  street ;  then  the  horses  were 
hitched ;  then  slowly  along  till  we  passed  the  crowd 
of  boats  near  the  city,  until  at  length,  with  a  lively 
jerk  as  the  horses  fell  into  a  trot,  away  we  went,  the 
cut-water  throwing  up  the  spray  as  we  rounded  the 
Penitentiary  hill,  and  the  passengers  lingering  on 
deck  to  get  a  last  look  at  the  fair  city  of  Richmond, 
lighted  by  the  pale  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

As  the  shadows  deepened,  everybody  went  below. 
There  was  always  a  crowd  in  those  days,  but  it  was  a 
-crowd  for  the  most  part  of  our  best  people,  and  no 
one  minded  it.  I  was  little,  and  it  took  little  room 


128  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

to  accommodate  me.  Everything  seemed  as  cozy 
and  comfortable  as  heart  could  wish.  I  brought  to 
the  table — an  excellent  one  it  was — a  school  boy's 
appetite,  sharpened  by  travel,  and  thought  it  was 
"  just  splendid." 

Supper  over,  the  men  went  on  deck  to  smoke, 
while  the  ladies  busied  themselves  with  draughts  or 
backgammon,  with  conversation  or  with  books.  But 
not  for  long.  The  curtains  which  separated  the 
female  from  the  male  department  were  soon  drawn, 
in  order  that  the  steward  and  his  aids  might  make 
ready  the  berths.  These  were  three  deep,  "  lower," 
"  middle,"  and  "  upper ;"  and  great  was  the  desire  on 
the  part  of  the  men  not  to  be  consigned  to  the 
"  upper."  Being  light  as  a  cork,  I  rose  naturally  to 
the  top,  clambering  thither  by  the  leathern  straps  with 
the  agility  of  a  monkey,  and  enjoying  as  best  1  might 
the  trampling  overhead  whenever  we  approached 
a  lock.  I  didn't  mind  this  much,  but  when  the  fel- 
low who  had  snubbed  the  boat  jumped  down  about 
four  feet,  right  on  my  head  as  it  were,  it  was  pretty 
severe.  Still  I  slept  the  sleep  of  youth.  We  all 
went  to  bed  early.  A  few  lingered,  talking  in  low 
tones ;  and  way-passengers,  in  case  there  was  a  crowd, 
were  dumped  upon  mattresses,  placed  on  the  dining- 
tables. 

The  lamp  shed  a  dim  light  over  the  sleepers,  and 
all  went  well  till  some  one — and  there  always  was 
some  one — began  to  snore.  Sn-a-a-aw — aw-aw-poof  ! 
They  would  turn  uneasily  and  try  to  compose  them- 
selves to  slumber  again.  No  use.  Sn-a-a-aw — -poof! 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  129 

"  D that  fellow !  Chunk  him  in  the  ribs,  some- 
body, and  make  him  turn  over.  Is  this  thing  to  go  on 
forever  ?  Gentlemen,  are  you  going  to  stand  this  all 
night  ?  If  you  are,  I  am  not.  I  am  going  to  get  up 
and  dress.  Who  is  he,  anyhow?  No  gentleman 
would  or  could  snore  in  that  way!" 

After  awhile  silence  would  be  restored,  and  all 
would  drop  off  to  sleep  again,  except  the  little  fellow 
in  the  upper  berth,  wTho,  lying  there,  would  listen  to 
the  trahn-ahn-ahn-ahn  of  the  packet-horn,  as  we 
drew  nigh  the  locks.  How  mournfully  it  sounded  in 
the  night !  what  a  doleful  thing  it  is  at  best,  and 
how  different  from  the  stage-horn,  with  its  cheery, 
ringing  notes !  The  difference  in  the  horns  marks  the 
difference  in  the  two  eras  of  travel;  not  that  the 
canal  period  is  doleful — I  would  not  say  that,  but  it 
is  less  bright  than  the  period  of  the  stage-coach. 

To  this  day  you  have  only  to  say,  within  my  hear- 
ing, trahn-akn-ahn*  to  bring  back  the  canal  epoch. 
I  can  see  the  whole  thing  down  to  the  snubbing-post, 
with  its  deep  grooves  which  the  heavy  rope  had  worn. 
Indeed,  I  think  I  could  snub  a  boat  myself,  with  very 
little  practice,  if  the  man  on  deck  would  say  "  hup  /" 
to  the  horses  at  the  proper  time. 

We  turned  out  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  pre- 
cious little  room  for  dressing.  But  that  wras  no  hard- 
ship to  me,  who  had  just  emerged  from  a  big  board- 
ing school  dormitory.  Still,  I  must  say,  being  now  a 
grown  and  oldish  man,  that  I  would  not  like  to  live 
and  sleep  and  dress  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  in  the 
cabin  of  a  canal-packet.  The  ceremony  of  ablution 
9 


130  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

was  performed  in  a  primitive  fashion.  There  were 
the  tin  basins,  the  big  tin  dipper  with  the  long 
wooden  handle.  I  feel  it  vibrating  in  the  water  now, 
and  the  water  a  little  muddy  generally ;  and  there 
were  the  towels,  a  big  one  on  a  roller,  and  the  little 
ones  in  a  pile,  and  all  of  them  wet.  These  were 
discomforts,  it  is  true,  but,  pshaw  !  one  good,  big, 
long,  deep  draught  of  pure,  fresh  morning  air — one 
glimpse  of  the  roseate  flush  above  the  wooded  hills 
of  the  James,  one  look  at  the  dew  besprent  bushes 
and  vines  along  the  canal  bank — one  sweet  caress  of 
dear  mother  nature  in  her  morning  robes,  made  am- 
ple compensation  for  them  all.  Breakfast  was  soon 
served,  and  all  the  more  enjoyed  in  consequence  of  an 
hour's  fasting  on  deck ;  the  sun  came  out  in  all  his 
splendor ;  the  day  was  fairly  set  in,  and  with  it  there 
was  abundant  leisure  to  enjoy  the  scenery,  that  grew 
more  and  more  captivating  as  we  rose,  lock  after  lock, 
into  the  rock-bound  eminences  of  the  upper  James. 
This  scenery  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe,  for  time 
has  sadly  dimmed  it  in  my  recollection.  The  wealth 
of  the  lowlands,  and  the  upland  beauty  must  be  seen 
as  I  have  seen  them,  in  the  day  of  their  prime,  to  be 
enjoyed. 

The  perfect  cultivation,  the  abundance,  the  elegance, 
the  ducal  splendor,  one  might  almost  say,  of  the  great 
estates  that  lay  along  the  canal  in  the  old  days  have 
passed  away  in  a  great  measure.  Here  were  gentle- 
men, not  merely  refined  and  educated,  fitted  to  dis- 
play a  royal  hospitality  and  to  devote  their  leisure 
to  the  study  of  the  art  and  practice  of  government, 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  131 

but  they  were  great  and  greatly  successful  farmers 
as  well.  The  land  teemed  with  all  manner  of  pro- 
ducts, cereals,  fruits,  what  not !  negroes  by  the  hun- 
dreds and  the  thousands,  under  wise  directions,  gen- 
tle but  firm  control,  plied  the  hoe  to  good  purpose. 
There  was  enough  and  to  spare  for  all — to  spare  ? 
aye !  to  bestow  with  glad  and  lavish  hospitality.  A 
mighty  change  has  been  wrought.  What  that  change 
is  in  all  of  its  effects  mine  eyes  have  happily  been 
spared  the  seeing ;  but  well  I  remember — I  can  never 
forget — how  from  time  to  time  the  boat  would  stop 
at  one  of  these  estates,  and  the  planter,  his  wife,  his 
daughters,  and  the  guests  that  were  going  home  with 
him,  would  be  met  by  those  who  had  remained  be- 
hind, and  how  joyous  the  greetings  were !  It  was  a 
bright  and  happy  scene,  and  it  continually  repeated 
itself  as  we  went  onward. 

In  fine  summer  weather,  the  passengers,  male  and 
female,  stayed  most  of  the  time  on  deck,  where  there 
was  a  great  deal  to  interest,  and  naught  to  mar 
the  happiness,  except  the  oft-repeated  warning, 
"  braidge  /"  "low  braidge  /"  ]STo  well-regulated 
packet-hand  was  ever  allowed  to  say  plain  "bridge;" 
that  was  an  etymological  crime  in  canal  ethics.  For 
the  men,  this  on-deck  existence  was  especially  de- 
lightful ;  it  is  such  a  comfort  to  spit  plump  into  the 
water  without  the  trouble  of  feeling  around  with 
your  head,  in  the  midst  of  a  political  discussion,  for 
the  spittoon. 

As  for  me,  I  often  went  below,  to  devour  Dickens' 
earlier  novels,  which  w^ere  then  appearing  in  rapid 


132  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

i 

»  succession.  But,  drawn  by  the  charm  of  the  scenery,, 
I  would  often  drop  my  book  and  go  back  on  deck 
again.  There  was  an  islet  in  the  river — where,  ex- 
actly, I  cannot  tell — which  had  a  beauty  of  its  own 
for  me,  because  from  the  moment  I  first  saw  it,  my 
purpose  was  to  make  it  the  scene  of  a  romance,  when 
I  got  to  be  a  great  big  man,  old  enough  to  write 
for  the  papers.  There  is  a  point  at  which  the  pas- 
sengers would  get  off,  and  taking  a  near  cut  across 
the  hills,  would  stretch  their  legs  with  a  mile  or  two 
of  walking.  It  was  unmanly,  I  held,  to  miss  that. 
Apropos  of  scenery,  I  must  not  forget  the  haunted 
house  near  Manchester,  which  was  pointed  out  soon 
after  we  left  Richmond,  and  filled  me  with  awe ;  for 
though  I  said  I  did  not  believe  in  ghosts,  I  did.  The 
ruined  mill,  a  mile  or  two  further  on,  was  always  an 
object  of  melancholy  interest  to  me ;  and  of  all  the 
locks  from  Lynchburg  down,  the  Three-Mile  Locks 
pleased  me  most.  It  is  a  pretty  place,  as  every  one 
will  own  on  seeing  it.  It  was  so  clean  and  green, 
and  white  and  thrifty-looking.  To  me  it  was  simply 
beautiful.  I  wanted  to  live  there ;  I  ought  to  have 
lived  there.  I  was  built  for  a  lock-keeper — have  that 
exact  moral  and  mental  shape.  Ah!  to  own  your 
own  negro,  who  would  do  all  the  drudgery  of  open- 
ing the  gates.  Occasionally  you  would  go  through 
the  form  of  putting  your  shoulder  to  the  huge 
wooden  levers,  if  that  is  what  they  call  them,  by 
which  the  gates  are  opened ;  to  own  your  own  negro 
and  live  and  die  calmly  at  a  lock!  What  more 
could  the  soul  ask  ?  I  do  think  that  the  finest  pic- 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  133 

ture  extant  of  peace  and  contentment — a  little  ab- 
normal, perhaps,  in  the  position  of  the  animal — is 
that  of  a  sick  rnule  looking  out  of  the  window  of  a 
canal  freight-boat.  And  that  you  could  see  every  day 
from  the  porch  of  your  cottage,  if  you  lived  at  a 
lock,  owned  your  own  negro,  and  there  was  no 
great  rush  of  business  on  the  canal,  (and  there  sel- 
dom was,)  on  the  "Jeems  and  Kanawhy,"  as  old 
Capt.  Sam  Wyatt  always  called  it,  leaving  out  the 
word  "canal,"  for  that  was  understood.  Yes,  one 
ought  to  live  as  a  pure  and  resigned  lock-keeper,  if 
one  would  be  blest,  really  blest. 

JSTow  that  I  am  on  the  back  track,  let  me  add  that, 
however  bold  and  picturesque  the  cliffs  and  bluffs 
near  Lynchburg  and  beyond,  there  was  nothing  from 
one  end  of  the  canal  to  the  other  to  compare  with  the 
first  sight  of  Richmond,  when,  rounding  a  corner  not 
far  from  Hollywood,  it  burst  full  upon  the  vision,  its 
capitol,  its  spires,  its  happy  homes,  flushed  with  the 
red  glow  of  evening.  And  what  it  looked  to  be,  it 
Avas.  Its  interior,  far  from  belieing  its  exterior, 
surpassed  it.  The  world  over,  there  is  no  lovelier 
site  for  a  city ;  and  the  world  over  there  was  no  city 
that  quite  equalled  it  in  the  charm  of  its  hospitality, 
its  refinement,  its  intelligence,  its  cordial  welcome  to 
strangers.  Few  of  its  inhabitants  were  very  rich, 
fewer  still  were  very  poor.  But  I  must  not  dwell  on 
this.  Beautiful  city  !  beautiful  city  !  you  may  grow  to 
be  as  populous  as  London,  and  surely  no  one  wishes 
you  greater  prosperity  than  I ;  but  grow  as  you  may, 
you  can  never  be  happier  than  you  were  in  the  days 


134:  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

whereof  I  speak.  How  jour  picture  comes  back  to 
me,  softened  by  time,  glorified  by  all  the  tender,  glow- 
ing tints  of  memory.  Around  you  now  is  the  added 
glory  of  history,  a  defence  almost  unrivalled  in  the 
annals  of  warfare ;  but  for  me  there  is  something 
even  brighter  than  historic  fame,  a  hue  derived  only 
from  the  heaven  of  memory.  In  my  childhood,  when 
all  things  were  beautiful  by  the  unclouded  light  of 
"the  young  soul  wandering  here  in  nature,"  I  saw 
ycu  in  your  youth,  full  of  hope,  full  of  promise, 
full  of  all  those  gracious  influences  which  made  your 
State  greatest  among  all  her  sisters,  and  which  seemed 
concentrated  in  yourself.  Be  your  maturity  what  it 
may,  it  can  never  be  brighter  than  this. 

To  return  to  the  boat.  All  the  scenery  in  the 
world — rocks  that  Salvator  would  love  to  paint,  and 
skies  that  Claude  could  never  limn — all  the  facilities 
for  spitting  that  earth  affords,  avail  not  to  keep  a 
Virginian  away  from  a  julep  on  a  hot  summer  day. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  descend  from  the  deck 
of  the  packet  and  refresh  himself.  The  bar  was 
small,  but  vigorous  and  healthy.  I  was  then  in  the 
lemonade  stage  of  boyhood,  and  it  was  not  until 
many  years  afterwards  that  I  rose  through  porterees 
and  claret-punches  to  the  sublimity  of  the  sherry 
cobbler,  and  discovered  that  the  packet  bar  sup- 
plied genuine  Havana  cigars  at  fourpence-ha'penny. 
Why,  eggs  were  but  sixpence  a  dozen  on  the  canal 
bank,  and  the  national  debt  wouldn't  have  filled  a 
tea-cup.  Internal  revenue  was  unknown;  the  cou- 
pons receivable  for  taxes  inconceivable,  and  forcible 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  135 

readjustment  a  thing  undreamt  of  in  Virginian  phil- 
osophy. Mr.  Mallock's  pregnant  question,  "Is  life 
worth  living  ?"  was  answered  very  satisfactorily,  me- 
thought,  as  I  watched  the  Virginians  at  their  juleps: 
"Gentlemen,  your  very  good  health;"  "Colonel, 
my  respects  to  you ;"  "  My  regards,  Judge.  When 
shall  I  see  you  again  at  my  house  ?  Can't  you  stop 
now  and  stay  a  little  while,  if  it  is  only  a  week  or 
two  ?"  "  Sam,"  (to  the  bar-keeper,)  "  duplicate  these 
drinks." 

How  they  smacked  their  lips ;  how  hot  the  talk  on 
politics  became ;  and  how  pernicious  this  example 
of  drinking  in  public  was  to  the  boy  who  looked  on  I 
Oh !  yes ;  and  if  you  expect  your  son  to  go  through 
life  without  bad  examples  set  him  by  his  elders  in  a 
thousand  ways,  you  must  take  him  to  another  sphere. 
Still,  the  fewer  bad  examples  the  better,  and  you,  at 
least,  need  not  set  them. 

Travelling  always  with  my  father,  who  was  a  mer- 
chant, it  was  natural  that  I  should  become  acquainted 
with  merchants.  But  I  remember  very  few  of  them. 
Mr.  Daniel  H.  London,  who  was  a  character,  and 
Mr.  Fleming  James,  who  often  visited  his  estate  in 
Roanoke,  and  was  more  of  a  character  than  London, 
I  recall  quite  vividly.  I  remember,  too,  Mr.  Francis 
B.  Deane,  who  was  always  talking  about  Mobjack 
Bay,  and  who  was  yet  to  build  the  Langhorne  Foun- 
dry in  Lynchburg.  I  thought  if  I  could  just  see 
Mobjack  Bay,  I  would  be  happy.  According  to  Mr. 
Deane,  and  I  agreed  with  him,  there  ought  by  this 
time  to  have  been  a  great  city  on  Mobjack  Bay.  I 


136  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

saw  Mobjack  Bay  last  summer,  and  was  happy. 
Any  man  who  goes  to  Gloucester  will  be  happy. 
More  marked  than  all  of  these  characters  was  Major 
Yancey,  of  Buckingham,  "the  wheel-horse  of  De- 
mocracy," he  wras  called;  Tim.  Rives,  of  Prince 
George,  whose  face,  some  said,  resembled  the  inside 
of  a  gnnlock,  being  the  war-horse.  Major  Yancey's 
stout  figure,  florid  face,  and  animated,  forcible  man- 
ner, come  back  with  some  distinctness;  and  there 
are  other  forms,  but  they  are  merely  outlines  barely 
discernible.  So  pass  away  men  who,  in  their  day, 
were  names  and  powers — shadows  gone  into  shadow- 
land,  leaving  but  a  dim  print  upon  a  few  brains, 
which  in  time  will  soon  flit  away. 

Arrived  in  Lynchburg,  the  effect  of  the  canal  was 
soon  seen  in  the  array  of  freight-boats,  the  activity 
and  bustle  at  the  packet  landing.  New  names  and 
new  faces,  from  the  canal  region  of  ~New  York,  most 
likely,  were  seen  and  heard.  I  became  acquainted 
with  the  family  of  Capt.  Huntley,  who  commanded 
one  of  the  boats,  and  was  for  some  years  quite  inti- 
mate with  his  pretty  daughters,  Lizzie,  Harriet  and 
Emma.  Capt.  H.  lived  on  Church  street,  next  door 
to  the  Reformed,  or  as  it  was  then  called,  the  Radi- 
cal Methodist  Church,  and  nearly  opposite  to  Mr. 
Peleg  Seabury.  He  was  for  a  time  connected  in 
some  way  with  the  Exchange  hotel,  but  removed 
with  his  family  to  Cincinnati,  since  when  I  have 
never  but  once  heard  of  them.  Where  are  they  all, 
I  wonder?  Then,  there  was  a  Mr.  Watson,  who 
lived  with  Boyd,  Edmond  &  Davenport,  married 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  137 

first  a  Miss ,  and   afterwards,  Mrs.    Christian, 

went  into  the  tabacco  business  in  Brooklyn,  then  dis- 
appeared, leaving  no  trace,  not  the  slightest.  Then 
there  was  a  rare  fellow,  Charles  Buckley,  who  lived 
in  the  same  store  with  Watson,  had  a  fine  voice,  and, 
without  a  particle  of  religion  in  the  ordinary  sense, 
loved  dearly  to  sing  at  revivals.  I  went  with  him ; 
we  took  back  seats,  and  sang  with  great  fervor. 
This  was  at  night.  Besides  Captain  Iluntley,  I  re- 
member among  the  captains  of  a  later  date,  Captain 
Jack  Yeatman ;  arid  at  a  date  still  later  his  brother, 
Captain  C.  E.  Yeatman,  both  of  whom  are  still 
living.  There  was  still  another  captain  whose  name 

was    Love something,  a  very  handsome    man; 

and  these  are  all. 

In  1849,  having  graduated  in  Philadelphia,  I  made 
one  of  my  last  through-trips  on  the  canal,  the  happy 
owner  of  a  diploma  in  a  green  tin  case,  and  the 
utterly  miserable  possessor  of  a  dyspepsia  w^hich 
threatened  my  life.  I  enjoyed  the  night  on  deck, 
sick  as  I  was.  The  owl's  "long  hoot,"  the  "plain- 
tive cry  of  the  whippoorwill ;"  the  melody — for  it  is 
by  association  a  melody,  which  the  Greeks  have  but 
travestied  with  their  brek-ke-ex,  ko-ex — of  the  frogs, 
the  mingled  hum  of  insect  life,  the  "  stilly  sound  " 
of  inanimate  nature,  the  soft  respiration  of  sleeping 
earth,  and  above  all,  the  ineffable  glory  of  the  stars. 
Oh!  heaven  of  heavens,  into  which  the  sick  boy, 
lying  alone  on  deck,  then  looked,  has  thy  charm  fled, 
too,  with  so  many  other  charms  ?  Have  thirty  years 
of  suffering,  of  thought,  of  book-reading,  brought 


138  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

only  the  unconsoling  knowledge,  that  yonder  twink- 
ling sparks  of  far-off  fire  are  not  lamps  that  light  the 
portals  of  the  palace  of  the  King  and  Father,  but 
suns  like  our  sun,  surrounded  by  earths  full  of  woe 
and  doubt  like  our  own ;  and  that  heaven,  if  heaven 
there  be,  is  not  in  the  sky;  not  in  space,  vast  as  it  is; 
not  in  time,  endless  though  it  be — where  then  ? 
"Near  thee,  in  thy  heart!"  Who  feels  this,  who 
will  say  this  of  himself?  Away,  thou  gray-haired, 
sunken-cheeked  sceptic,  away !  Come  back  to  me, 
come  back  to  me,  wan  youth;  there  on  that  deck, 
with  the  treasure  of  thy  faith,  thy  trust  in  men,  thy 
worship  of  womankind,  thy  hope,  that  sickness  could 
not  chill,  in  the  sweet  possibilities  of  life.  Come 
back  to  me ! — "Tis  a  vain  cry.  The  youth  lies  there 
on  the  packet's  deck,  looking  upward  to  the  stars, 
and  he  will  not  return. 

The  trip  in  1849  was  a  dreary  one  until  there  came 
aboard  a  dear  lady  friend  of  mine  who  had  recently 
been  married.  I  had  not  had  a  good  honest  talk 
with  a  girl  for  eighteen  solid — I  think  I  had  better 
say  long,  (we  always  say  long  when  speaking  of  the 
war) — "fo'  long  years !" — I  have  heard  it  a  thousand 
times — for  eighteen  long  months,  and  you  may  im- 
agine how  I  enjoyed  the  conversation  with  my  friend. 
She  wrasn't  very  pretty,  and  her  husband  was  a  Louisa 
man ;  but  her  talk,  full  of  good  heart  and  good  sense, 
put  new  life  into  me.  One  other  through-trip,  the 
very  last,  I  made  in  1851.  On  my  return  in  1853? 
I  went  by  rail  as  far  as  Farmville,  and  thence  by 
stage  to  Lynchburg ;  so  that,  for  purposes  of  through 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES.  139 

travel,  the  canal  lasted,  one  may  say,  only  ten  or  a 
dozen  years.  And  now  the  canal,  after  a  fair  and 
costly  trial,  is  to  give  place  to  the  rail,  and  I,  in  com- 
mon with  the  great  body  of  Yirginians,  am  heartily 
glad  of  it.  It  has  served  its  purpose  well  enough, 
perhaps,  for  its  day  and  generation.  The  world  ha& 
passed  by  it,  as  it  has  passed  by  slavery.  Henceforth 
Yirginia  must  prove  her  metal  in  the  front  of  steam,, 
electricity,  and  possibly  mightier  forces  still.  If  she 
can't  hold  her  own  in  their  presence,  she  must  go 
under.  I  believe  she  will  hold  her  own  ;  these  very 
forces  will  help  her.  The  dream  of  the  great  canal 
to  the  Ohio,  with  its  nine-mile  tunnel,  costing  fifty 
or  more  millions,  furnished  by  the  general  govern- 
ment, and  revolutionizing  the  commerce  of  the 
United  States,  much  as  the  discovery  of  America 
and  opening  of  the  Suez  canal  revolutionized  the 
commerce  of  the  world,  must  be  abandoned  along 
with  other  dreams. 

One  cannot  withhold  admiration  from  President 
Johnston  and  other  officers  of  the  canal,  who  made 
such  a  manful  struggle  to  save  it.  But  who  can 
war  against  the  elements  ?  Nature  herself,  imitating 
man,  seems  to  have  taken  special  delight  in  kicking 
the  canal  after  it  was  down.  So  it  must  go.  Well, 
let  it  go.  It  knew  Yirginia  in  her  palmiest  days 
and  it  crushed  the  stage  coach ;  isn't  that  glory 
enough?  I  think  it  is.  But  I  can't  help  feeling 
sorry  for  the  bull  frogs ;  there  must  be  a  good  many 
of  them  between  here  and  Lexington.  What  will 
become  of  them,  I  wonder  ?  They  will  follow  their 


140  CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 

predecessors,  the  batteaux;  and  their  pale,  green 
ghosts,  seated  on  the  prows  of  shadowy  barges,  will 
be  heard  piping  the  roundelays  of  long-departed  joys. 

Farewell  canal,  frogs,  musk-rats,  mules,  packet- 
horns  and  all,  a  long  farewell.  Welcome  the  rail 
along  the  winding  valley  of  the  James.  Wake  up, 
Fluvanna  !  Arise,  old  Buckingham  !  Exalt  thyself, 
O  Goochland !  And  thou,  O  Powhatan,  be  not 
afraid  nor  shame-faced  any  longer,  but  raise  thy 
Ebenezer  freely,  for  the  day  of  thy  redemption  is  at 
hand.  Willis  J.  Dance  shall  rejoice ;  yea,  Wm.  Pope 
Dabney  shall  be  exceeding  glad.  And  all  hail  our 
long  lost  brother  !  come  to  these  empty,  aching  arms, 
dear  Lynch's  Ferry  ! 

'  I  have  always  thought  that  the  unnatural  separa- 
tion between  Lynchburg  and  Richmond  was  the 
source  of  all  our  troubles.  In  some  way,  not  entirely 
clear  to  me,  it  brought  on  the  late  war,  and  it  will 
bring  on  another,  if  a  reunion  between  the  two  cities 
does  not  soon  take  place.  Baltimore,  that  pretty 
and  attractive,  but  meddlesome  vixen,  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all.  Richmond  will  not  fear  Baltimore 
after  the  rails  are  laid.  Her  prosperity  will  date 
anew  from  the  time  of  her  iron  wedding  with  Lynch- 
burg. We  shall  see  her  merchants  on  our  streets 
again,  and  see  them  often.  That  will  be  a  better 
day. 

Alas  !  there  are  many  we  shall  not  see.  John  G. 
Meem,  Sam'l  McCorkle,  John  Robin  McDaniel,  John 
Hollins,  Charles  Phelps,  John  R.  D.  Payne,  Jehu 
Williams,  Ambrose  Rucker,  Wilson  P.  Bryant  (who 


CANAL  REMINISCENCES. 


died  the  other  day),  and  many,  many  others,  will  not 
come  to  Richmond  any  more.  They  are  gone.  And 
if  they  came,  they  would  not  meet  the  men  they  used 
to  meet  ;  very  few  of  them  at  least.  Jacquelin  P.. 
Taylor,  John  N.  Gordon,  Thomas  R.  Price,  Lewis 
D.  Crenshaw,  James  Dunlop  —  why  add  to  the  list  ? 
They  too  are  gone. 

But  the  sons  of  the  old-time  merchants  of  Lynch- 
burg  will  meet  here  the  sons  of  the  old-time  mer- 
chants of  Richmond,  and  the  meeting  of  the  two, 
the  mingling  of  the  waters  —  Blackwater  creek  with 
Bacon  Quarter  branch  —  deuce  take  it  !  I  have  gone 
off  on  the  water  line  again  —  the  admixture,  I  should 
say,  of  the  sills  of  Campbell  with  the  spikes  of  Hen- 
rico,  the  readjustment,  so  to  speak,  of  the  ties  (R.  R. 
ties)  that  bind  us,  will  more  than  atone  for  the  ob- 
solete canal,  and  draw  us  all  the  closer  by  reason  of 
our  long  separation  and  estrangement.  Richmond 
and  Lynchburg  united  will  go  onward  and  upward 
in  a  common  career  of  glory  and  prosperity.  And 
is  there,  can  there  be,  a  Virginian,  deserving  the 
name,  who  would  envy  that  glory,  or  for  a  moment 
retard  that  prosperity  ?  Not  one,  I  am  sure. 

Allow  me,  now  that  my  reminiscences  are  ended, 
allow  me,  as  an  old  stager  and  packet-horn  reverer, 
one  last  Parthian  shot.  It  is  this  :  If  the  James  river 
does  not  behave  better  hereafter  than  it  has  done  of 
late,  the  railroad  will  have  to  be  suspended  in  mid- 
heavens  by  means  of  a  series  of  stationary  balloons  ; 
travelling  then  may  be  a  little  wabbly,  but  at  all 
events,  it  won't  be  wet. 


THE 

SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS. 


THE  stranger  in  Lynchbnrg  who  stops  at  the 
City  Hotel,  in  passing  to  and  fro,  will  not  fail 
to  be  struck  with  the  singular  aspect  of  a  building 
not  far  from  his  lodgings.  Upon  the  front  of  this 
building,  which  stands  a  little  back  from  the  house- 
line  of  the  street,  he  will  find  marked — 

"E.  J    FOLKES, 
FURNITURE  WAREROOMS." 

The  shape  of  the  house  so  marked  is  unlike  the 
shape  of  houses  appropriated  to  business  purposes; 
but  what  will  most  curiously  attract  the  stranger's 
eye,  is  a  little  belfry  perched  above  the  gable.  ]STo 
bell  swings  in  that  belfry.  Under  a  hastily-made 
shed-porch  in  front  of  the  house  will  be  found  a 
number  of  rucking-chairs,  tables,  and  other  articles, 
showing  what  may  be  expected  inside.  In  the  sweet 
summer  mornings,  the  proprietor  may  not  unfre- 
quently  be  seen  seated  in  one  of  his  rocking-chairs, 
quietly  reading  a  newspaper. 

If  the  stranger  wrill  venture  to  open  either  of  the 
two  folding  doors  that  give  ingress  to  this  building, 
he  will  find  the  interior  filled  to  repletion  with  all 
manner  of  furniture.  Let  him  go  boldly  in  among 


THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS.  143 

the  multitude  of  bureaus,  sofas,  wash-stands,  pier- 
tables,  and  lounges.  All  is  very  still  there.  The 
bright  and  glossy  crowd  of  dumb  domestics  are 
patiently  awaiting  owners  to  come  and  claim  them. 
One  is  reminded  of  those  Northern  Intelligence 
Offices,  where  hosts  of  Irish  and  German  girls  sit, 
without  speaking,  day  after  day;  only  here  the  ser- 
vants are  not  flesh  and  blood,  but  structures  of  rose- 
wood, mahogany  and  marble. 

A  strange  and  not  wholly  pleasant  feeling  creeps 
over  the  visitor  as  he  gazes  on  the  inanimate  forms 
that  people  the  broad  wareroom. 

If  this  furniture  had  been  used,  if  it  were  old,  and 
black,  and  rickety,  the  feeling  should  be  desolate  in- 
deed. But  now  that  it  is  new,  and  rich,  and  beauti- 
ful, it  should  suggest  cheerful  fancies  only.  Hither 
the  young  couple  will  come  to  furnish  their  house — 
their  home — sweet,  because  it  is  theirs.  In  yonder 
tall  wardrobe  will  hang  the  spotless  white  dresses  of 
the  bride,  and  the  brave  black  finery  of  the  groom. 
The  glass  on  that  marble-topped  bureau  will  reflect 
the  blushes  of  her  pure  young  face,  and  the  drawers 
will  be  proud  to  hold  the  delicate  laces  and  the  mani- 
fold "nice  nothings"  that  pertain  to  her  in  right  of 
her  sex.  Upon  that  gold-embroidered  tete-a-tete,  the 
happy  pair  will  tell  each  other  the  story  of  their  love- 
days — again  and  again — tiring  never  of  that  sweet 
time  when  the  breeze  blew  fresh  and  fragrant  from 
the  ever-nearing  Isles  of  Hope.  Surely  the  dumb 
furniture  is  eloquent,  and  tells  charming  stories ! 

Nevertheless,  to   the    visitor,   meditating   in    the 


144:  THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS. 

midst  of  the  wareroom,  there  comes  through  all  the 
meshes  of  his  silver-woven  fancies,  a  something,  out 
of  keeping  with  the  place,  breathing  awe  upon  him. 

W-hat  is  this?  and  why  comes  it? 

It  is  the  nameless  spirit  that  clings  to  and  lingers 
in  and  around  every  unpeopled  habitation;  and  it 
comes  here  with  peculiar  solemnity  and  power  be- 
cause this  wareroom  was  once  the  tabernacle  and 
house  of  the  Most  High  God  !  Yea,  it  was  even  so; 
^and  albeit  the  pulpit  hung  with  green,  the  old-fash- 
ioned plain  benches,  and  the  deep-toned  bell  are  gone, 
the  stranger  may  still  see  that  this  was  a  church  once. 
Here  the  mysterious  rites  that  conjoin  the  transient 
mortal  with  the  Source  infinite  and  eternal  of  life, 
were  performed.  Here  religion,  in  its  terror  and  its 
tenderness,  in  the  sublimity  of  its  hopes  and  the 
boundlessness  of  its  despair,  was  preached  by  lips 
fired  almost  to  prophecy;  here  prayers  as  pure  as 
ever  trembled  up  to  God's  throne  were  uttered;  and 
here  repentance  as  sincere  as  ever  transformed  err- 
ing men  was  felt  and  avowed.  Can  a  soul  know  its 
unseen  tragedies  in 'time  and  place,  and  leave  no  mute 
record  there  ?  Can  the  glow  and  the  joy  of  a  faith 
that  dulls  the  last  sharp  pang,  and  triumphs  over  de- 
cay be  felt,  and  the  spot  that  saw  the  birth  of  that 
faith  bear  no  witness  of  it  ?  Can  celestial  ministers 
bring  messages  of  everlasting  peace  to  the  fear-har- 
rowed soul,  and  no  lingering  trace,  perceptible  to  the 
finer  senses,  remain  upon  the  walls  hallowed  by  the 
touches  of  their  wings,  and  on  the  floor  pressed  once 
by  their  noiseless  sandals  ?  Nay,  truly.  If  the  fire- 


THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS.  145 

side  delights,  and  all  the  "fair  humanities"  that  en- 
dear the  humblest  dwelling,  will  cluster  about  the 
broken  hearthstone,  and  redeem  with  tenderest  sug- 
gestions the  horror  of  the  charred  and  fallen  rafters, 
how  much  more  shall  the  higher  emotions  of  religion 
hallow  holier  places,  and  with  greater  tenacity  cling 
to  ruined  shrines  and  deserted  churches ! 

But  the  palpable  awe  of  the  sacred  wareroom  must 
be  vague  and  fleeting  to  the  stranger.  It  is  deep,  it 
is  lasting  to  him  who  remembers  the  old  church  in 
its  prime.  When  the  white  pailings  in  front  enclosed 
a  little  yard,  green  with  a  patch  of  sward  011  either 
side,  and  a  little  paper-mulberry  tree  in  the  centre  of 
each  patch.  When  the  bell,  tolling  early  on  a  bright 
Sunday  morning,  summoned  the  children,  clean  with 
starched  white  clothes,  to  the  Sabbath-school.  When 
the  mind,  fretted  now  and  hardened  with  business 
cares,  was  concerned  about  the  questions  of  the  cate- 
chism, and  the  ear  familiar  with  the  getting-by-heart 
hum  of  the  hundred  round-faced  scholars. 

Graver  was  the  time  when  the  morning  service 
came.  The  little  yard  was  filled  then  with  gentle- 
men grouped  about  the  mulberry  tree,  after  they 
had  assisted  the  ladies  in  to  the  right-hand  door. 
Youths  were  there,  arrayed  in  their  best,  watching 
the  fair  faces  and  the  charming  figures  as  they  came 
walking,  or  tripped  lightly  out  of  carriages. 

Within  all  was  hushed.  The  scholars,  who  short- 
while  hummed  so  loudly,  were  silent  now,  and  sat 
demurely  by  their  parents'  sides,  with  restless  feet 
that  could  not  touch  the  floor.  Soon,  overcome  with 
10 


14:6  THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS. 

heat,  the  little  forms  would  be  stretched  upon  the 
bench,  the  moist  young  brows,  protected  by  a  kindly 
handkerchief,  reposing  in  a  father's  or  a  mother's  lap. 

Alas !  they  who  slept  sweet  slumbers  in  the  hap- 
py day  when  this  wareroom  was  a  church,  shall 
sleep  thus  again  no  more.  The  hands  whose  gentle 
touches  waked  those  sleepers  when  the  sermon  ended, 
have  mouldered  into  dust,  or  tremble  now  with  the 
palsy  of  age.  The  flight  of  years  has  made  men  and 
women  of  those  children  who  in  this  wareroom  first 
heard  the  public  accents  of  prayer  and  praise.  Their 
youth  is  gone,  and  with  it  the  wonder  and  the  beauty 
of  life,  and  almost  of  religion. 

Memories  still  more  solemn  come  to  him  who  once 
sat  in  this  sanctuary — memories  of  high  religious  fes- 
tivals and  revivals,  with  their  excitement,  their  power, 
their  terror,  with  that  wondrous  fascination  which  the 
sight  of  weeping  men  and  women,  repenting,  and 
heart-broken,  and  joyful,  must  ever  give. 

But  sadder  yet,  and  sweeter  than  these,  come  mem- 
ories imbued  with  the  intense  and  mysterious  charm 
of  sacred  music. 

Ah !  the  singers,  the  singers  that  sang  in  this  old 
church!  Few,  very  few  of  them  remain.  Some  sing 
no  longer ;  some  have  wandered  from  the  fold ;  some 
live  in  far  States  and  in  other  cities;  and  some — are 
.sleeping. 

One  noble  old  man,  whose  fine,  venerable  head 
kept  time  to  the  divine  music  in  his  heart,  we  all  re- 
member. Warm  was  he ;  true,  upright,  full  of  love 
toward  his  fellow-man,  full  of  service  to  his  Master, 


THE  SACRED  FURNITURE  WAREROOM8.  14:7 

and  not  to  be  wearied  in  well-doing.  Who  that  ever 
heard  him  can  forget  with  what  fervor  he  was  wont 
to  sing : 

"  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus  name, 
Let  angels  prostrate  fall; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 

lending  his  whole  soul  to  the  melodious  utterance  of 
that  name  he  loved  so  well  ? 

His  earthly  voice  fell  silent  long  ago ;  his  honored 
dust  reposes  in  the  graveyard  of  his  church;  and 
there  a  marble  obelisk  rises  to  attest  the  esteem  his 
townsmen  justly  bore  him. 

One  other  singer,  the  sweetest  that  ever  sang  in 
this  old  church,  returns  dim  but  beautiful  to  the  fill- 
ing eyes  that  gaze  upon  the  dead  space  where  once 
her  living  self — lovely  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood 
and  in  the  beauty  'of  her  guilelessness — sang  praises 
to  Him  who  is  the  source  of  beauty  and  of  truth. 
How  pure,  how  sweet,  how  tender,  was  her  voice! 
the  vocal  life  of  her  sinless  heart !  the  fit,  intelligent, 
worshipful,  loving  instrument  to  hymn  the  highest 
music ! 

Unhappy,  unhappy  singer !  Neither  thy  beauty, 
nor  thy  sweetness,  nor  thy  sinlessness,  could  save 
thee  from  the  appointed  sorrow.  It  is  over  now. 
The  sweet  voice  is  dumb,  the  loveful  lips  are  ashes, 
and  the  true,  stainless  woman's  heart  shall  throb  no 
more,  no  more  for  ever.  All  of  her  that  could  fade 
lies  in  the  church-yard,  not  far  from  him,  the  noble 
Christian,  father  and  friend  of  humanity,  whose  voice 


148  THE  SACKED  FURNITURE  WAREROOMS. 

often  blended  with  her  own  sweet  tones  when  on 
earth  they  sang  together  the  songs  of  Zion.  Over 
her,  the  leaves,  dark  and  glossy-green,  of  the  sombre 
oaks  have  lightly  moved  to  the  sighing  winds  of  many 
vernal  morns ;  and  upon  her  tomb,  through  the  long 
nights  of  many  autumns,  those  leaves,  grown  sere, 
have  fallen  fast,  as  tears  to  weep  her  mournful  fate. 
Peace  be  to  her,  and  joy,  and  love ! 

Other  singers  there  were  in  this  old  church,  and 
others  still  who  sang  only  in  their  hearts ;  all  worthy 
to  be  named,  and  all  too  sadly  well  remembered  and 
recalled  by  those  who  see  the  bowed  forms,  clad  in 
deep  crape,  that  tremblingly  walk  the  aisles  of  the 
new  church,  and  who  miss  the  reverent  faces  from 
their  accustomed  pew,  and  hear  no  more  the  well- 
known  voices  in  the  choir. 

Alas  !  for  life's  changes ;  alas !  for  those  that  have 
already  come ;  and  for  those  yet  to  come — unknown 
changes — but  which  must  come — oh!  how  shall  we 
bear  them  ? 

The  new  times  demanded  the  new  church ;  its 
gothic  beauty  deserves  the  admiration  it  has  re- 
ceived; its  organ,  touched  by  a  master's  hand,  doth 
utter  forth  a  glorious  voice ;  but  so  long  as  one  beam 
of  the  old  church  is  fastened  to  another,  and  so  long 
as  memory  holds  her  seat,  so  long  there  will  be  one 
who  will  turn  from  the  finer  architecture  of  the 
modern  structure  and  forget  the  grander  music  of 
the  organ,  to  muse  over  the  simpler  manners  of  the 
past,  and  to  bring  back  the  plain  hymn-music  and 
the  singers  that  sang  it  of  old,  in  the  Sacred  Furni- 
ture Wareroorns. 


MY  VILE   BEARD. 


i. 

GETTING  SHAVED  IN  CHARLOTTE. 

I  HA YEN'T  got  much  beard,  but  what  little  there 
is  of  it  is  the  worst  kind  of  beard.     In  the  first 
place,  it  is  more  like  Berlin  wire,  tough  and  hard, 
than  an  animal  or  other  substance. 

Some  people,  you  know,  contend  that  the  hair  and 
nails  are  vegetables,  inasmuch  as  they  continue  to 
grow  after  a  body  is  dead.  But  my  beard  is  a  metal. 
In  the  next  place,  my  beard  crops  out  at  all  sorts  of 
angles,  that  on  my  chin  growing  downwards,  like 
anybody  else's,  while  that  on  my  cheeks  grows  up- 
wards, and  that  on  my  throat  emerges  sideways  in 
every  direction,  like  the  rays  of  a  starfish.  Lastly, 
my  skin  is  exceedingly  tender,  my  jaws  very  hollow, 
and  my  neck  scraggy  and  fluted,  like  a  consumptive 
Corinthian  column — if  you  can  imagine  such  a  thing. 
The  consequence  is  that  I  can't  shave  myself,  even  if 
I  knew  how  to  sharpen  a  razor,  a  feat  which  I  have 
often  attempted,  and  shall  never  perform.  That's 
certain,  for  I've  tried  and  tried,  till  there  is  no  use 
in  trying.  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  for  a  barber  to 
shave  me  clean.  You  see,  he  can't  get  at  my  beard, 
and  if  he  could,  lie  dare  not  shave  both  ways,  for  if 


150  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

lie  does  he  leaves  my  face  as  bloody  as  a  black-heart 
cherry,  just  skinned. 

Leander  Harrison,  the  best  barber  in  the  State, 
according  to  my  thinking,  will  tell  you  that  my  beard 
is  the  worst  beard  that  ever  disfigured  the  human 
visage. 

How  serious  a  thing  it  is  not  to  be  able  to  shave 
myself  you  will  be  able  to  understand  as  soon  as  I 
tell  you  how  I  got  shaved  in  Charlotte.  Listen :  In 
the  year  1850  or  1851 — the  date  is  not  important — 
I  started  from  town — what  town  ? — on  horseback — 
wiiose  horse's  back  ?  If  you  had  seen  my  horse,  you 
would  at  once  have  detected  my  business.  He  was 
a  showy  horse,  and  his  trappings,  down  to  the  very 
martingale,  were  spick  and  span  new.  Saddle-bags 
were  new,  and  full  of  new  clothes.  Umbrella  was 
'new,  hat  new,  gloves  new,  wiiip  new — in  fact,  the 
whole  turnout,  rider  included,  had  that  slick  var- 
nished look  that  things  have  when  fresh  from  the 
hands  of  the  cabinet-maker.  I  was  five  and  twenty 
years  old,  and  the  summer  was  just  closing.  Surely 
you  must  guess  that,  although  I  was  not  going  north, 
my  object  was  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  dry  goods  for  the 
fall. 

The  day  was  fine.  I  had  a  plenty  of  excellent 
cigars,  and  never  felt  better  in  my  life. 

Our  appearance  ("our"  meaning  the  horse  and 
myself)  attracted  the  attention  of  everybody  we 
passed.  We  were  especially  pleased  with  the  com- 
pliment passed  upon  us  by  one  of  a  group  of  small 
negroes,  who  assembled  around  us  when  we  stopped 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  151 

at  a  woe-begone  house  on  the  roadside  to  get  a  drink 
of  water.  The  compliment  ran  thus :  "  Unh  !  if  dat 
ar  ain't  de  pootyest  white  man  and  de  pootyest  hoss 
and  bridle,  I  wisht  I  may  nuvver."  Under  the  im- 
pulse of  this  praise  we  struck  off  gaily  into  that  lone- 
some road  that  leads  to  the  particular  locality  in  the 
county  of  Charlotte  which  was  the  goal  of  my  am- 
bition. For  twenty  miles  we  passed  not  a  solitary 
traveller,  and  scarcely  a  human  habitation. 

I  recall  only  a  single  log-hut  on  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  road.  Some  two  score  sickly  tobacco  plants 
crowded  up  to  the  very  door  of  this  hut,  showing 
that  it  was  inhabited;  but  not  a  living  thing  was 
visible. 

Fifty  yards  down  the  road  I  overtook  a  draggle- 
tailed  rooster,  who  ran  out  of  my  way  and  hid  be- 
hind a  chestnut  tree,  and  set  up  a  crow  in  the  weak 
accents  of  unmistakable  bronchitis.  My  horse 
switched  his  tail  as  if  to  resent  the  insult,  and  on 
we  went  along  the  lonely  road.  I  began  to  feel  not 
so  comfortable  in  the  saddle  as  I  had  been  at  start- 
ing, and  my  high  spirits  abated.  As  I  had  never 
been  in  that  region  before,  it  soon  became  very  cer- 
tain that  my  invariable  rule  of  getting  lost  had  not 
been  broken.  But  there  was  the  "main,  plain  road," 
and  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  follow  it.  So  I  followed 
it.  And  the  trot  of  the  showy  horse  became  harder 
and  harder.  Nothing  but  the  ever-delightful  and 
continually  recurring  reverie,  in  which  I  had  been 
indulging  from  the  moment  I  set  out,  sustained  me 
while  that  showy  horse  trotted  harder  and  still  harder 


152  MY  VILE  BEAED. 

along  that  dreary  road  through  the  interminable 
chestnut  woods.  All  at  once  I  was  rudely  awakened 
from  my  delicious  day-dream.  The  horse  had 
stopped ;  and  this  is  what  made  him  stop : 


eNteRTaNemEnt 
By  rueBin  b  Riles 


This  sign,  painted  in  white  letters  on  a  black 
ground,  was  fastened  by  a  wooden  pin,  driven  through 
its  centre,  into  an  augur  hole  in  an  immense  hewn 
gate-post.  There  was  one  post,  and  no  fence  at  all, 
only  a  horse-rack,  made  of  a  piece  of  cedar,  with  its 
many  branches  trimmed  off,  laid  upon  two  forked 
uprights  of  Spanish  oak.  The  house  had  been  a  large 
and  good  one.  Now  it  was  far  gone  in  dark  decay, 
as  were  also  the  few  remaining  out-houses.  All  the 
old  trees  had  died  out ;  one  side  of  the  large  yard 
contained  a  thicket  of  young  locusts,  while  the  other 
was  imshaded,  and  almost  grassless. 

I  thought  to  myself  that  Mr.  Briles's  entertainment 
was  likely  to  be  rather  indifferent.  Still,  it  was  the 
best  I  could  do.  So,  seeing  nobody,  I  sang  out,  af- 
ter the  English  fashion, — 

"House!" 

~No  answer. 

"  House!" 

Not  a  word. 

"  HOUSE  !"— this  time  as  loud  as  I  could  bawl. 

To  my  surprise  I  was  answered  from  behind. 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  153 

"'Taint  'house,'  'tis  Briles." 

"Ah!"  said  I,  turning  around,  "how  do  you  do, 
sir?" 

"  Right  peart ;  how'd  y'  come  on  yourself  ?" 
The  speaker  was  a  fine  specimen  of  a  Virginia 
countryman;  over  six  feet,  bony,  dark,  athletic,  but 
lazy,  good-natured,  yet  passionate,  and  clad  only  in 
a  coarse  shirt  and  still  coarser  "  bluein  "  pantaloons. 
"  What  place  is  this  ?"  I  asked. 
"Brileses." 

"  And  where  is  Mr.  Briles  ?" 
"Wharuvver  he  is  thar  you'll  find  me." 
"Well,  Mr.  Briles,  can  I  get  dinner?" 
"  Sertiiey  you  kin.     We  all  done  dinner  mo'n  two 
hours,  and  I  was  jes  goin'  squrl  huntiii' ;   but  the 
leaves  is  too  thick  yet  awhile,  and  thar's  plenty  a 
time  befo'  sundown.     I   recon  we  can  git  you.  up 
sornethin'  or  nuther  pretty  quick  that'll  do  to  stay 
your  stummuck.     Boy !" 

"Boy"  was  uttered  in  a  tone  calculated  to  raise 
the  dead,  and  very  soon  a  cornfield  hand  came  run- 
ning to  take  my  horse.  Dismounting  slowly,  I  found 
myself  so  sore  from  the  trotting  I  had  undergone 
that  I  could  hardly  walk  into  the  house,  the  inside 
of  which  I  will  not  describe,  lest  it  make  this  story 
too  long.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  it  corresponded  with 
the  outside.  Depositing  my  bran  new  saddle-bags 
on  the  bench — it  was  mighty  hard — in  the  porch,  I 
sat  down  and  took  off  my  hat  and  cravat,  the  better 
to  cool  off. 

"Take  somethin',  Mister?" 


154  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

"With  great  pleasure,"  I  replied. 

"'Taint  so  dog-goned  good,  but  you're  'bundant 
welcome  to  it.  Spos'n  I  make  you  a  julep  ?" 

"Very  well,"  said  I. 

A  julep  of  new  whiskey,  with  brown  sugar,  and 
without  ice  is  rather  a  hard  thing  to  worry  down,, 
but  I  was  so  exhausted  that  I  really  enjoyed  it. 
After  I  had  finished  it,  I  asked  Briles':  "  What 
county  is  this  ?" 

"  Tcharlut." 

"What?" 

"  Tcharlut ;  the  county  uv  Tcharlut." 

"Oh!  Charlotte." 

"Yes;  Tcharlut." 

"Well,  how  far  is  it  from  here  to  the  Court 
House?" 

"A  little  over  twenty-one  mile — jest  twenty-one 
mile  to  a  nit's  night-cap  from  that  ar  big  white  oak 
up  yonder  at  the  forks  uv  the  road." 

"  And  what  is  this  part  of  the  country  called  ? 
Has  it  any  particular  name  ?" 

"  To  be  sho'.  Right  here  is  Brileses,  which  it  is  a 
presink;  but  this  here  ridge  ar  called  'Venjunce 
Ridge.'" 

"Indeed!     Why  so?" 

"  They  was  bleest  to  name  it  somethin',  I  reckon, 
and  that's  what  it  took  its  name  from." 

"Ah!  Well,  does  a  gentleman  named  Cooke 
live  anywhere  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"Thar's  old  Beazly  Cooke  keeps  a  wheelwright 
shop  up  here  about  two  mile  down  in  the  Cub  Creek 
Hollow." 


MY  YILE  BEARD.  155 

"  He  is  not  the  man." 

"Thar's  Joneeston  Cooke,  owns  'bout  two  hundred 
niggers,  on  the  river." 

"No;  it  is  not  he." 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  most  inoffensive 
impertinence.  "  Oh  !  I  seen  your  hand  plain — two 
bullets  and  a  bragger — a  queen  by  the  livins  !  It's 
the  ole  Captain  you  mean.  I  might  a'  known  you 
was  arter  courtin  somethin'.  He's  rich  as  mornin'& 
milk." 

"Why,  you  don't  expect  me  to  court  him?" 

"Yes,  maybe  I  don't.  Ef  he  didn't  had  them 
thousand  acres  o'  low  groun's  that  ar  bridle  and 
saddle  would  nuvver  have  stopped  at  Brileses." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  turn  a  city  collector 
into  a  courting  man,  I  can't  help  it." 

"Pretty  decking  you'll  do,  I  jes  bet.  You'll 
cleckt  a  hundred  and  twenty  poun'  uv  lady-meat  and 
about  thirty  niggers,  or  else  you'll  cleckt  a  kicking ; 
one  or  tuther,  sertin." 

All  this  was  said  in  such  an  indescribably  good- 
natured,  honest  tone,  that  I  could  not  take  offence. 
So  I  told  Briles  that  I  would  take  a  nap  until  dinner 
was  ready. 

In  what  appeared  to  me  a  half  minute,  but  was  in 
fact  half  an  hour,  I  was  awakened  by  Briles,  and  told 
that  dinner  was  on  the  table.  A  small  table,  covered 
with  a  dingy  cloth,  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 
dining  room,  and  thereon  I  found  chicken,  ham  and 
eggs,  some  sweet  potatoes  and  butter-beans.  In  ad- 
dition to  these,  there  was  a  plate  of  good  butter,  a 


156  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

pitcher  of  milk,  and  three  large  hoe-cakes.  This 
was  the  dinner.  Affixed  to  the  ceiling,  just  over  the 
table,  I  perceived  one  of  those  fixtures  which  years 
ago  used  to  be  in  vogue  in  much  larger  taverns, 
called,  I  believed,  a  fan.  It  consisted  of  a  long  piece 
of  red  cloth,  suspended  by  mechanical  contrivances 
which  I  cannot  describe,  and  was  kept  in  motion  by 
means  of  a  rope  pulled  by  a  negro  boy,  who  stood 
exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  fire-place.  As  I  sat 
down,  the  boy  began  to  pull  the  fan  with  vigor. 

Briles  apologized  for  his  dinner.  "  Its  pritty  po' 
eatin',  and  if  you  jest  had  waited  tel  supper  time,  I'd 
a  had  you  some  squrls.  We  kill  a  ram  lam'  yistiddy, 
the  finest  you  uvver  see,  fat  two  inches  thick  on  the 
ribs,  but  the  nigger  took  and  put  it  in  the  spring 
house,  thout  fastnin'  the  do,'  and  the  fust  thing  a  ole 
houii'  sneak  in  thar  and  eat  it  up  clean  to  the  bone." 
During  these  remarks,  Briles  once  or  twice  inter- 
rupted himself  to  say  in  a  loud  voice,  "boy!"  to 
which  the  negro  pulling  the  fan  would  answer  "  suli," 
and  pull  the  fan  more  vigorously  than  before.  Then 
Briles  would  go  on  with  what  he  had  to  say.  But 
he  was  evidently  annoyed  about  something. 

"Of  co'se  the  dog  didn't  eat—" 

"Boy!" 

"Suh." 

The  fan  fluttered  faster. 

"Didn't  eat  all  the  lam',  because — " 

"Boy!" 

"Sub." 

The  fan  flapped  still  faster. 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  157 

"Because  we  all  had  done  sent  a  good  part  of  it 
away  to  vayus  neighbors — " 

"Boy!" 

"Suh." 

The  fan  was  going  at  a  terrific  rate.  Briles 
thundered  out — 

"BOY!  don't  be  so  dam'  induschus!"  Never  was 
a  negro  so  taken  aback.  He  had  supposed  all  the 
time,  that  the  object  of  his  master  in  calling  him  was 
to  urge  him  on  in  the  work  of  keeping  off  the  flies 
with  the  fan,  and  now,  when  he  discovered  his  mis- 
take, I  don't  think  the  whole  county  of  "  Tcharlut" 
could  have  presented  a  more  pitably  chop-fallen 
spectacle.  I  laughed  outright.  But  Briles  glared  at 
him  savagely,  until  I  thought  he  would  have  fallen 
where  he  stood. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  master  of  the  house 
invited  me  to  go  out  hunting  with  him,  a  proposition 
to  which  I  would  willingly  have  acceded,  if  I  had  not 
been  so  stiff  and  sore.  Briles  went  off.  I  lighted 
my  cigar  and  lolled  upon  the  bench  in  the  porch.  I 
pass  over  the  night  and  the  particulars  of  my  intro- 
duction to  Mrs.  Briles,  who  proved  to  be  both  ugly 
and  quarrelsome — for  which  last  Briles,  very  con- 
fidingly, accounted,  by  saying  "  there  nuvver  was  no 
peace  in  no  family  that  didn't  have  children." 

The  next  morning  I  found  myself  even  more  stiff 
and  sore  than  I  had  been  the  evening  previous. 
Every  joint  ached.  It  was  plain  that  I  had  to  pass 
the  day  at  Briles's.  Briles  did  his  best  to  make  my 
stay  agreeable,  but  the  constant  sharp  voice  of  Mrs. 


158  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

jBriles,  as  she  scolded  the  negroes  in  the  back  yard, 
and  my  natural  impatience  to  reach  my  journey's 
end,  made  all  his  efforts  abortive. 

However,  the  second  morning  came  and  found  me, 
not  exactly  supple,  but  able  to  mount  the  trotting- 
horse  again,  and  to  endure  him  for  a  season.  I  de- 
termined to  hasten  on  immediately  after  breakfast. 
But  when  I  went  to  the  little  dingy-looking  glass  to 
brush  my  hair,  a  terrible  fact  was  revealed  to  me : 
My  beard  was  three  days  old !  Shave  I  must,  and 
that  immediately;  but  I  could  not  shave  myself.  I 
had  no  razor.  Strange  that  I  had  never  thought  of 
that  before  leaving  town.  But  somebody  must  shave 
me.  Who  f  There  were  no  barbers  in  that  coun- 
try; it  was  doubtful  whether  Briles  ever  shaved  at 
all ;  and  what  to  do  I  knew  not.  The  case,  as  it  ap- 
peared to  me  at  this  time,  was  so  grave  that  I  find 
it  impossible  to  impart  it.  I  was  young,  was  going 
to  a  highly  respectable  house,  on  business  of  the  ut- 
most importance.  It  was  indispensable  to  a  good 
first  impression  that  my  appearance  should  at  least 
be  decent.  As  these  reflections  crowded  upon  me,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  return  to  town,  get  shaved,  and 
bring  a  barber  back  with  me. 

When  I  went  down  to  breakfast  I  told  Briles  of 
my  unhappy  condition.  Sympathizing  with  me,  he 
;said  he  "  wished  to  goodness  he  could  shave  me,  but 
he  couldn't.  He  could  trim  ha'r  tollibly,  but  never 
had  laid  no  razor  to  no  man's  jaw  but  his  own." 
After  thinking  over  the  matter  for  some  time,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  his  man  "Benj'min" 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  159 

liad  worked  on  the  "  Gunnel,"  and  may  be  he  knew 
how  to  shave.  So  Benj'min  was  called.  He  proved 
to  be  a  clumsy,  self-important  creature,  who  "  'low'd 
he  could  shave  a  gent'man  good  as  any  barber." 
Rather  than  ride  back  thirty  miles  to  town,  I  con- 
sented to  let  Benjamin  try  his  hand  on  me,  upon  the 
following  terms,  proposed  by  himself : 

1st.  He  didn't  want  me  to  pay  him  nuthin  no 
way. 

2nd.  If  he  "  made  the  bleed  come,"  he  "  wouldn't 
take  nuthin  if  I  wTas  to  gin  it  to  him." 

3rd.  He  agreed  to  shave  me  "  two  days  under  the 
skin." 

4th.  If  I  had  "  a  little  ole  wescut  or  hankcher," 
Benjamin  would  be  a  thousand  times  "  obleeged"  to 
me  for  either  of  them. 

This  contract  being  accepted  on  my  part,  Briles 
went  off  to  a  "  vandue,"  and  Benjamin  went  off  after 
.his  shaving  implements.  I  waited  in  moody  silence 
his  return. 

Soon  I  heard  Mrs.  Briles  quarrelling  with  Benja- 
min because  he  attempted  to  take  some  of  the  cook's 
hot  water,  and  thought  something  was  said  about 
"  soap,"  but  of  this  last  I  was  not  certain.  I  waited 
and  waited.  It  was  fully  an  hour  before  Benjamin 
came  back.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  tin  bucket,  such 
as  negroes  use  to  carry  their  dinner  to  the  field,  full 
of  hot  water ;  in  the  other  was  a  large,  round,  dark- 
bay,  ugly-looking  gourd ;  and  under  his  arm  was 
what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  leather  surcingle,  a  mop, 
and  a  bowie-knife  ;  but  I  was  so  mad  with  him  on 


160  MY  VILE  BEAKD. 

account  of  his  delay  that  I  could  not  see  very  well. 
He  came  into  the  porch,  where  I  sat,  with  a  smile 
of  intense  self-esteem  on  his  face,  and  said  he  had 
been  detained  all  this  time  by  honing  the  razor.  I 
answered  not  a  word.  Setting  down  his  implements 
on  the  bench  behind  me,  he  stood  irresolute  for  a 
time,  and  finally  went  off.  I  sat  still  as  a  stone. 
He  soon  returned  with  an  axe  and  a  nail.  Driving 
the  nail  partway  into  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch, 
he  bent  the  head  upwards  so  as  to  form  a  hook,  and 
to  this  hook  he  attached  the  leather  surcingle  (it  was 
over  a  yard  long),  and  began  to  "  strop"  the  bowie- 
knife,  which  proved,  however,  to  be  a  razor,  or 
rather  a  cross  between  a  razor  and  a  broad-axe. 
Never  before  or  since  have  I  seen  such  an  imple- 
ment. 

I  looked  on,  without  saying  a  word.  He  talked 
and  strapped,  and  strapped  and  talked.  When  he 
had  finished  strapping  his  broad-axe  (it  took  him  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  do  so),  he  tested  its  sharpness 
by  nicking  his  thumb-nail  and  by  splitting  a  thread 
of  his  wrool.  I  kept  perfectly  quiet.  Regarding  my- 
self as  a  doomed  man,  I  sat  quite  passive  and  ready  to 
meet  my  fate.  He  laid  down  his  razor  and  went  be- 
hind me  to  get  the  tin-bucket  and  other  things.  I 
have  had  many  sensations  in  my  time,  but  I  doubt  if 
all  of  them  put  together  could  produce  quite  so  har- 
rowing a  state  of  mind  and  body  as  I  experienced  when 
that  negro  came  forward  with  a  large  painter's  brush 
(it  was  not  a  mop),  and  a  gourd  full  of  soft  soap — 
this  home-made,  greasy,  villainous  stuff.  But  I 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  161 

held  my  peace.  He  lathered  me.  Ugh  !  I  shud- 
der when  I  think  of  it.  But  he  did  lather  me  up  to 
my  very  temples  and  down  to  my  breast-bone.  And 
such  lather !  "Whew  !  I  opened  not  my  mouth.  Nay, 
verily — not  in  the  presence  of  that  lather.  After 
he  had  invested  my  countenance  with  the  nauseous 
froth,  Benjamin  gave  his  baby  broad-axe  a  few  more 
whets  on  the  surcingle,  and  the  amputation  of  my 
beard  commenced.  During  the  first  few  strokes  I 
was  agreeably  surprised,  the  broad-axe  seemed  to  cut 
so  smoothly.  But  when  he  had  scraped  my  jaws 
pretty  thoroughly  and  got  over  to  the  fluted  part  of 
my  neck,  where  the  beard  grew  like  the  vortex  of  a 
whirlpool,  I  became  conscious  of  a  pain  that  no  man 
— certainly  no  woman — ever  realized.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it.  It  was  like  tearing  the  skin  off  and  stick- 
ing of  red-hot  needles  into  the  raw  meat,  as  fast  as 
it  appeared  under  the  razor.  But  it  was  something 
more  than  this — something  more  than  the  dumb  rage 
I  felt,  added  to  this,  and  something  more  than  the 
awful  odor  of  the  soft-soap  lather,  added  to  that. 
Imagine  it !  But,  like  a  stoic,  I  bore  it  without  a 
murmur.  ISTay,  I  kept  my  fury  so  quiet  that  I  did 
not  even  make  a  comment  when  Benjamin  made  the 
remark,  for  which  I  had  been  looking :  "  Dar  now  !" 
said  he,  "  de  blood  ar  done  come,  spite  'o  all  I  could 
do.  Dis  razor  shave  mighty  easy,  I  boun ;  but  den 
de  skin  on  yo'  nake  'pear  to  be  monsus  weak, 
monsus." 

The  fact  is,  the  blood  was  trickling  down  my 
breast. 

11 


162  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

As  I  made  no  answer,  Benjamin  dipped  his  paint 
brush  into  the  soap-gourd,  lathered  me  anew,  and 
kept  on  shaving. 

"I  done  shave  you  down,"  said  he,  after  awhile, 
"  right  clean  and  good.  Now  I  gwine  ter  shave  you 
up.  I  'spec  when  it  go  agin  de  grain,  it  ar  mos'  likely 
to  giv  some  trouble,  but  tain'  no  use  o'  shavin'  unless 
you  gwine  ter  do  de  thing  as  it  ought  to  be  done." 

So  he  shaved  me  against  the  grain,  and  I  gritted 
my  teeth,  determined  to  bear  the  torture  without  a 
groan,  if  I  died  under  his  hand.  At  last  he  got 
through  "shaving  me  up"  and  began  running  his 
finger  about  in  the  greasy  soap-suds  on  my  throat  to 
feel  which  way  the  beard  grew,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  staunch  the  flowing  blood  with  a  towel,  and 
promising  me  that  as  soon  as  he  got  through  he 
would  make  it  all  right  "by  plarsterin'  de  beard- 
holes  with  a  little  sut."  In  getting  at  the  before- 
mentioned  vortex  of  beard,  he  assumed  all  sorts  of 
attitudes  and  bent  my  head  and  neck  in  all  manner 
of  directions,  until  I  thought  he  would  end  by  twist- 
ing my  head  entirely  off.  He  got  in  front  of  me, 
behind  me,  on  my  right  side,  on  my  left  side,  and  in 
between  my  legs.  He  was  very  rough  and  very 
determined  to  fulfill  his  promise  to  shave  me  two 
days  under  the  skin.  Still  I  gritted  my  teeth  and 
let  him  keep  on  his  murderous  operation.  The  job 
was  not  an  easy  one.  I  felt  something  almost  like 
pleasure  when  he  began  to  perspire  and  to  show 
anger,  as  if  the  beard  were  a  personal  enemy  whom 
he  could  not  conquer. 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  163 

"Good  G — d  A'mighty!  what  a  beard!"  he  at 
length  exclaimed.  It  'pear  to  grow  farst  is  you 
shave  it." 

I  answered  not  a  word. 

It  is  probable  that  I  could  have  gone  through 
with  that  terrific  shaving  without  a  syllable  of  com- 
plaint, if  Benjamin  had  not  wounded  my  pride  as 
well  as  my  person.  Getting  to  a  little  spot  just 
under  the  angle  of  my  jaw,  where  the  beard  was 
peculiarly  twisted  in  its  growth,  he  became  fairly 
puzzled.  He  did  his  besMo  get  at  it,  but  he  could 
not.  This  way  and  that,  behind  me  and  before  me, 
on  either  side,  every  way,  he  tried,  but  all  in  vain. 
Then  it  was  that  he  broke  out,  in  the  most  offensive 
tone  imaginable,  with  the  following  unparalleled  pro- 
position. 

"My  little  marster,  there's  'bout  three  or  fo'  uv 
the  outrajusist  little  bars  here  I  uvver  did  see.  I 
carn't  gether  um,  all  I  kin  do.  Couldn't  you — 
couldn't  you — a — urrah — couldn't  you  jes  start'  on 
yc?  hade  (head)  for  a  minute  or  two,  if  you  please, 
sir." 

The  words  "  stan'  on  yo'  hade  "  were  hardly  out  of 
his  mouth  before  he  was  lying  flat  of  his  back.  In 
a  frenzy  of  passion,  which  had  been  restrained  until 
it  could  be  restrained  to  longer,  I  knocked  him  sense- 
less with  a  chair.  It  was  like  lightning,  so  quickly 
and  fiercely  was  it  done;  and  to  this  day  I  have 
never  been  able  to  tell  how  I  kept  from  killing  him 
outright.  And  this  was  the  way  I  got  shaved  in 
"  Tcharlut."  It  is  enough  to  make  me  "  stan'  on  my 


164  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

hade"  whenever  I  think  of  it.     The  rest  of  the  ad- 
venture you  shall  hear. 

II. 
THE  THROAT-CUT  LOVER. 

I  left  Brileses'  with  a  throat  perfectly  raw  and 
bloody,  the  maddest  man  the  world  that  day  con- 
tained, and  in  the  worst  possible  plight  to  go  a  court- 
ing. But  go  I  must,  and  court  I  must.  To  return 
home  would  have  been  folly;  I  was  under  a  solemn 
promise  to  be  at  the  young  lady's  house  by  a  cer- 
tain day.  So  I  paid  Briles  his  bill — a  very  small 
one — accepted,  not  with  the  best  grace,  his  condo- 
lence and  his  promise  to  thrash  Benj'min  soundly, 
indignantly  rejected  Mrs.  Briles'  proffer  to  "  ease 
my  misery  by  wropping  my  throat  in  a  strip  of  fat 
bacon-rine  that  would  go  round  twice' t,"  and  set 
forth.  My  throat  pained  me  terribly;  my  anger 
was  high,  and  I  rode  on  as  fast  as  my  horse  could 
carry  me.  The  few  persons  I  encountered  eyed  me 
with  a  strange  look;  but  I  was  out  of  sight  be- 
fore they  could  make  a  remark.  Crossing  the  river, 
I  entered  the  county  of  Halifax — not  without  some 
awkward  questions  from  the  ferryman.  Leaving  the 
fertile  lowlands,  I  ascended  a  low  range  of  hills, 
trotted  rapidly  along  the  ridge,  and  about  dinner 
hour  found  myself  lost.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  I 
observed  the  very  red  a'spect  of  my  bosom.  My 
collar  was  in  even  a  worse  condition ;  it  was  a  bloody 
rag.  My  throat  was  still  bleeding.  Dismounting 
from  my  horse,  I  repaired  to  a  marshy  spot  in  the 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  165 

woods,  and  gave  my  neck  a  good  bathing.  The 
water  was  warm,  but  the  astringent  property  im- 
parted to  it  by  the  oak  leaves  which  had  fallen  made 
it  act  like  a  charm.  It  staunched  the  blood  com- 
pletely, and,  though  it  burnt  me  severely  at  first, 
produced  the  most  soothing  and  grateful  after-effect. 
Feeling  much  relieved,  I  sat  down  on  the  root  of  a 
tree,  and  wiped  my  neck  as  well  as  I  could  with  my 
handkerchief.  I  then  concluded  that  the  best  thing, 
nay,  the  indispensable  thing,  for  me  to  do,  was  to 
divest  myself  of  my  sanguineous  under-garment,  and 
put  on  a  clean  one.  Accordingly,  I  went  for  my  sad- 
dle-bags, brought  them  into  the  woods,  about  twenty 
feet  or  more  from  the  road,  opened  them,  pulled 
out  a — a — a  nicely  ironed  a — urah,  and  proceeded 
to  make  a  sylvan  toilette.  Meanwhile,  I  became  ex- 
ceedingly hungry.  To  stay  my  hunger,  I  lit  a  cigar. 
My  garment  was  just  on,  but  not  a  single  button 
buttoned,  when  a  negro  boy  came  riding  by  on  a 
mule.  I  called  to  him  to  stop.  He  did  so ;  looked 
around,  but  saw  nobody.  I  told  him  to  wait  a 
minute  until  I  could  get  ready.  Though  he  could 
not  see  me,  I  could  see  him  very  plainly ;  and  as  he 
was  evidently  a  little  frightened,  I  thought  it  ad- 
visable to  go  up  to  him,  and  ask  him  to  tell  me  the 
way  to  the  place  I  was  going.  Out  I  walked,  ac- 
coutred as  I  was,  white  above  and  dark  below — my 
pantaloons  being  dark  grey — and  cigar  in  mouth. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  turned  to  run,  but,  on 
second  thought,  held  his  ground.  But  the  moment 
I  got  close  to  him,  he  bounced  off  the  mule  and  ran 


166  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

through  the  woods,  bawling  as  hard  as  he  could.  Of 
course  I  ran  after  him.  It  would  never  do  to  let 
slip  the  only  chance  I  had  of  ascertaining  my  where- 
abouts. The  little  devil  ran  like  a  deer ;  but  after 
a  hard  chase  I  overtook  him  and  collared  him.  The 
moment  I  laid  my  hands  on  him,  he  made  the  woods 
ring  with  piercing  screams,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
I  was  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  rough,  powerful 
white  men,  one  of  whom,  armed  with  a  sledge-ham- 
mer, threatened  to  "  bust  my  derned  head  open  ef  I 
didn't  let  that  ar  boy  go." 

It  turned  out  that  the  spot  where  I  caught  the 
boy  was  but  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  interest- 
ing village,  or  blacksmith's  shop,  of  "Madison's 
Cross  Roads,"  and  that  the  amiable  gentlemen  who 
surrounded  me  comprised  a  large  majority  of  its 
population.  I  explained  to  them  at  once  the  reason 
why  I  had  run  after  the  boy,  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  tell  them  about  my  getting  shaved  in  Charlotte, 
thus  accounting  for  the  very  suspicious  appearance 
of  my  throat  and  the  singularity  of  my  costume. 
Some  of  them  looked  as  if  they  believed  me ;  others 
did  not.  I  overheard  one  fellow  whisper  to  his 
friend : 

"  That  man's  bin  hung.  Don't  you  see  his  neck  ? 
He  needn't  tell  me  nothing  'bout  his  gittin'  shaved 
at  Briles's.  Briles's  Ben  kin  shave  good  as  anybody. 
I  think  I  heerd  thai*  was  a  man  hung  last  Friday  in 
Pittsylvany,  and  that  ar  is  the  man  to  a  dead  moral 
certainty." 

"  I  don't  like  his  looks,  neither,"  was  the  reply. 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  167 

"But  if  a  man's  bin  hung  wunst,  you  can't  hang 
him  nar  a'nuther  time  for  the  same  offenst.  It's 
agin  the  law.  But  what  was  he  a  doing  to  Brace's 
Jim?  He  couldn't  a  wanted  to  kill  the  nigger; 
reck'n  he  could?" 

"Dunno,"  said  the  h'rst  speaker.  "He's  got  the 
worst  face  I  uvver  see  on  top  of  any  man.  He  aint 
too  good  to  commit  murder  jest  to  keep  his  hand  in." 

While  this  agreeable  conversation  was  going  on,  I 
busied  myself  in  buttoning  up  my  apparel  and  making 
myself  as  decent  as  I  could.  By  the  time  I  got 
through  the  citizens  of  Madison's  Cross  Roads  drew 
off  a  little  way,  as  if  to  consult  what  was  best  to  be 
done  with  me.  I  awaited  patiently  their  decision. 
The  spokesman  came  forward  and  said : 

"  Mister,  you  tell  a  mighty  straight  sort  of  story, 
but  you've  got  a  kind  uv  count'nance  that  none  uv 
we  all  don't  like.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelins, 
but  the  sooner  you  git  away  from  Madison's  Cross 
Roads  the  better.  YOU  say  you're  going  do\*n  to 
Squire  Cookses.  Well,  you  ken  jes  go  'long.  But 
I'm  a  coming  thai*  soon  to-morrow  morning,  and  ef 
your  story  aint  crobborated  by  facts,  I'm  gwine  to 
take  you  up,  according  to  law." 

They  all  turned  and  walked  off,  taking  Bruce's 
Jim  with  them.  I  laughed  and  went  to  my  saddle- 
bags, finished  dressing,  mounted  my  steed  and  started 
off  quite  gaily,  both  pain  and  hunger  having  disap- 
peared under  the  excitement  of  my  amusing  inter- 
view with  the  fierce  Madison's  Cross-Roaders.  Un- 
fortunately, the  only  information  I  had  been  able  to 


168  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

get  in  regard  to  the  locality  of  Squire  Cooke's,  was 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  "  a  right  sharp  ways  down 
the  road,  jinin'  John  Thompson's  land,  after  you  get 
over  the  creek."  As  I  rode  on,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  tie  my  handkerchief 
around  my  neck,  which  began  to  feel  sore  again,  and 
to  bleed  a  little.  This  I  did,  and  felt  the  better  for 
it.  But  now  my  hunger  returned  with  great  violence. 
I  got  down  from  my  horse,  and  ate  a  few  chestnuts 
that  I  found  under  the  leaves;  but  these  served  only 
to  make  me  still  hungrier.  I  again  mounted  and 
rode  forward.  Emerging  at  length  from  the  seem- 
ingly interminable  woods,  I  beheld,  to  my  great  joy, 
an  apple  orchard,  sure  sign  of  a  house  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, though  none  was  in  view.  A  fine  tree,  loaded 
with  big  red  apples,  was  not  far  from  the  fence,  and 
in  a  very  few  minutes  I  had  a  dozen  in  my  hands 
and  my  pockets,  and  was  sitting  on  the  fence  eating 
them  with  great  relish.  Up  came  a  shabbily-dressed 
old  fellow,  riding  a  sorrel  mare,  with  awkward  colt 
behind  her.  Thinking  him  some  third-rate  farmer, 
I  hailed  him  in  a  free  and  easy  manner,  and  asked 
him  how  far  it  was  to  old  Squire  Cooke's.  He  re- 
plied stiffly,  that  it  was  but  a  short  distance.  "I 
told  him  that  I  was  on  the  way  to  the  Squire's  house, 
and  as  I  had  already  lost  myself  twice,  I  would  be 
obliged  to  him  if  he  would  show  me  the  exact  place." 

The  old  fellow  bestowed  a  suspicious  glance  upon 
me,  wrinkled  his  shaggy  eye-brows,  in  token  of 
satisfaction  or  the  reverse,  and  said : 

"  If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  show  you  the  house." 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  169 

You  guess  the  sequel,  O  reader.  The  old  fellow 
was  Squire  Cooke  himself ! 

I  spare  you  the  recital  of  my  inward  pangs  and 
confused  apologies  when  the  awkward  discovery  was 
made.  One  thing  I  congratulated  myself  upon,  viz. : 
that  I  had  not  (as  I  was  in  an  ace  of  doing  several 
times)  asked  the  old  fellow  if  Squire  Cooke  was  as 
well  off  as  people  said  he  was,  and  whether  he  was  a 
skin-flint,  as  I  had  heard. 

My  reception  by  Mrs.  Cooke  was  kind,  by  her 
daughter  cordial.  The  Squire  kept  very  grim.  At 
dinner  we  had  corn-pudding,  late  in  the  year  as  it 
was.  Like  a  fool,  I  said  nothing  to  account  for  the 
alarming  appearance  of  my  throat,  which  was  fully 
exposed  to  view,  owing  to  the  fact  that  it  was  so 
.sore  outside  that  the  bare  idea  of  tying  a  cravat 
tightly  around  it,  to  hide  it,  was  agonizing.  The  old 
lady,  obliged  to  talk  to  me,  always  took  care  to  let 
her  eyes  fall  below  the  level  of  my  hair,  which  was 
not  pretty  hair.  My  inamorata  looked  cold.  The 
hideous  redness  of  my  throat  had  begun  to  tell  on 
her.  I  felt  uneasy.  The  servants  gazed  at  me  very 
much.  Paterfamilias  ate  a  great  deal  and  said  no- 
thing. My  face  began  to  get  as  red  as  my  throat. 
In  this  pleasant  state  of  bashfulness,  and  while  I  was. 
in  the  act  of  carrying  the  first  forkful  of  corn-pud- 
ding to  my  mouth,  the  old  gentleman  addressed  me 
a  question.  You  know  how  corn-pudding  retains  its 
heat.  I  knew  it  too,  but  in  my  confusion  forgot  it. 
So  when  the  old  gentleman  suddenly  spoke  to  me, 
jpop  !  the  burning  mass  of  corn-pudding  slipped  off 


170  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

my  fork,  fell  down  my  loose  collar,  and  lodged  ex- 
actly where  my   throat  was  rawest !  !      Don't  ask 
what  I  did.      Hah  !  but  it  was  hot !     If  I  didn't 
hear  things  fizz  under    the   corn-pudding.      I  felt 
them.     I  did  not  sit  still.     I  did  not  keep  quiet.     I 
did  not  display  any  heroism.     I  don't  know  precisely 
how  I  acted.  Think  I  howled.   Expect  I  danced  round 
the   room.     Believe  I   swore.     Remember  I  cried. 
The  pain  was  mighty  bad.     The  chagrin  was  worse.- 
Know  I  cared  nothing  for  the  dignity  of  manhood. 
Know  I  tore  open  my  collar,  my  bosom,  my  vest,, 
and  snatched  out  the  pudding,  as  much  as  I  could 
get  of  it.     It  burnt  my  fingers,  and  I  slung  it  off, 
little  caring  where  it  went.     Think  it  spattered  the 
old  gentleman's  face.     You  are  correct  in  saying  that 
I  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  that  I  was  in  the  pre- 
sence of  my  sweetheart,  and  ought  to  have  borne  the 
pain  with   a  smiling  visage.     I  dare  say.     Yes,  I 
ought  to  have  been  very  smiling.     But  what  is  a 
sweetheart  to  a  man  with  an  ounce  of  corn-pudding 
frying  away  on  his  raw  throat  ?     Answer  me  that. 
Everything  was  done  for  me  that  could  be  done,  and 
in  process  of  time  I  became  as  easy  as  a  man  could 
well  be  under  the  circumstances.     But  I  felt  small- 
inclination  to  make  love  to  Miss  Cooke.     Nor  did 
Miss  Cooke  seem  to  expect  it.     She  played  on  the 
piano,  talked  about  trifles,  and  was  altogether  too 
condoling.     I  discovered  a  number  of  defects  in  her 
character.     She  seemed  fond  of  alluding  to  painful 
subjects.    She  lacked  genuine  feeling  for  the  afflicted.. 


MY  VILE  BEARD.  1T1 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  hypocrisy  in  her  amiable 
nature.     I  was  glad  when  bedtime  came. 

Slept  badly.  Throat  hurt  me.  About  day,  fell 
into  an  uneasy  doze,  from  which  I  was  awakened 
by  a  noise  in  the  yard.  My  friends  of  Madison's- 
Cross  Koad  had  come  to  arrest  me,  as  a  man  who 
had  impertinently  escaped  from  the  gallows,  and  tried 
to  kill  or  kidnap  one  of  Bruce's  negroes.  Fortunately,, 
the  Squire  was  «a  magistrate,  and  after  hearing  the 
evidence  of  his  daughter,  summoned  into  the  parlor 
before  sunrise  as  a  witness,  dismissed  the  case,  and 
sent  the  Madison  Cross  Koaders  home,  grumbling  and 
dissatisfied.  They  wanted  my  blood;  that  was  plain. 

My  trial  did  not  improve  my  position  as  a  suitor 
in  the  eyes  of  any  of  the  family,  and  I  knew  it.  My 
hopes  were  scattered  to  the  winds.  At  breakfast, 
unable  to  eat  any  solid  food,  I  swallowed  my  coffee 
in  solemn  silence,  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  ended, 
went  forth  to  look  after  my  horse.  Outside  of  the 
stable  I  heard  two  negroes  talking.  One  of  them 
stuttered : 

"  D-d-d-dat  ar  man  come  cotin'  Miss  Sally — he — 
he  ain't  n-n-no thing  but  a  tackey." 

"Hoccum  he  aint?  He  got  good  hoss  and  bridle 
is  anybody,  don't  keer  whar  they  come  from." 

"He  d-d-don't  war  no  strops  to  his  britchis." 

"But. he  got  money — I  seen  it!"  replied  my  de- 
fender. 

"  An-an-an  he  don't  war  no  gallowses." 

"Hoccum  he  don't  war  no  gallowses!  How  you. 
know,  I  reckon !" 


172  MY  VILE  BEARD. 

"Did'nt  I — I — I  see  him  d-d-dis  morning,  when 
dey  c-c-come  to  try  him  f-f-f ore  he  dress  ?" 

"  Well,  if  you  sho'  he  don't  war  no  gallowses — ef 
you  sho9 — den  de  sooner  he  clear  out  from  here  de 
better.  I  don't  wants  to  b'long  to  no  man  whar  don't 
war  gallowses,  cause  I  nuvver  see  no  gent'man  but 
what  he  war'd  gallowses — a  par  uv  um.  Evin  a 
ove'seer,  he  war  one.  'Spectable  people  nuvver  fastens 
their  britchis  with  a  buckle  and  tongue,  like  a  gearth, 
and  Miss  Sally  ain't  gwine  hav  him,  ef  you  heer  my 
racket." 

This  was  enough  for  me.  Two  hours  afterwards 
I  left  Squire  Cooke's.  Never  returned  there — 
and  never  will — not  if  I  had  a  million  "  par  uv  gal- 
lowses." 


CORNFIELD  PEAS. 


I  KNOW  these  Virginians  pretty  well.  They  are 
the  greatest  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  In 
fact,  they  are  the  only  people.  There  was  a  time 
when,  in  my  deep  benightment  and  in  my  unloyalty 
to  my  ever  dear  old  mother  Virginia,  I  believed  that 
Englishmen  and  Russians  were  people.  Such,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  case.  I  am  wiser  now,  and  know  that 
England  is  a  country  laboring  under  dry-rot.  It  is, 
as  we  Virginians  say  of  a  tree,  "doted,"  and  English- 
men are  but  the  fungoid  remains  of  what  was  once  a 
people.  It  is  not  with  much  pleasure  that  I  make 
this  undeniable  statement,  for  we  of  Virginia  sprang 
from  British  loins.  In  like  manner,  the  Goddess  of 
Wisdom  and  of  War  sprang  from  that  broken-down 
old  rake  and  thunderer,  Jove.  Minerva  came  from 
a  pain  in  Jupiter's  head,  and  Virginia  came  from  a 
pain,  for  the  want  of  sense,  in  the  head  of  Bull.  As 
for  the  Russians,  they  own  slaves,  and  hence  they  ape 
the  manners  of  Virginians.  But  their  slaves  are 
white,  and  until  they  learn  to  say  "thar"  and  to  call 
a  cucumber  "  curcumber,"  they  cannot,  in  my  opinion, 
lay  any  claim  whatever  to  the  honor  of  being  called 
people.  In  this  connection  it  is  well  to  state,  for  the 
benefit  of  political  economists,  that  the  apparently 


174  CORN-FIELD  PEAS. 

human  beings  of  the  British  isles  would  to  this  day 
have  remained  what  they  once  were,  and  even  now 
seem  to  be — a  people — but  for  the  Act  of  Emanci- 
pation. There  cannot  be  a  people  without  niggers, 
and  niggers  are  not  niggers  unless  they  are  slaves.  A 
free  nigger  is  a  monstrosity,  a  paradox,  a  hand  with- 
out muscle,  an  amputated  leg,  a  glass  eye-ball,  and 
-a  shinplaster — uncurrent  at  that.  In  a  word,  he  is 
a  tender  without  any  locomotive ;  fuel — coals,  for 
-example — without  any  machinery.  A  nigger  with- 
out a  master  is  latent  power  off  the  track.  Put  him 
on  by  himself,  you  can  get  him  along  only  by  push- 
ing, so  constant  and  severe  that  it  costs  more  than  it 
comes  to.  Tackle  him  to  an  engine  in  the  shape  of 
.a  white  man,  and  the  long  train  laden  with  industrial 
products  goes  it  with  a  rush,  the  locomotive  displays 
itself  to  advantage,  and  the  black  tender  follows  and 
keeps  close  up  behind,  in  a  blaze  of  dust  and  glory. 

Some  miles — pity  the  distance  is  not  greater — to 
the  northward  and  eastward  of  Yirginia  there  are,  as 
it  were,  people.  But  they  are  only  Yankees.  From 
repeated  close  and  careful  personal  inspection  of 
great  numbers  of  them,  I  am  prepared  to  say  that 
almost  any  man  not  born  and  raised  in  Yirgiuia 
would  mistake  them  for  beings  endowed  with  the 
-celestial  spark  of  reason.  Gifted  with  the  lineaments, 
the  members  and  the  garb  of  humanity,  they  succeeded 
for  many  years  in  palming  themselves  off  as  people. 
'The  imposture  indeed  was  carried  to  an  incredible 
pitch.  Yankees,  it  is  said — but  how  can  I  believe 
it  ? —  Yankees  were  employed  to  instruct  the  immortal 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  175 

mind  of  the  youth  of  Virginia.  Oh  !  astounding ! 
But  the  statements  neither  of  history  nor  tradition 
can  often  be  trusted,  and  the  above,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, is  preposterous.  Why,  I  would  respectfully 
ask,  do  we  never  meet  with  a  Virginian,  young  or 
old,  or  middle-aged,  who  says  "  heaow  "  for  "  how," 
•"  doo  "  for  "  dew,"  "  dun't  "  for  "  don't,"  and  such 
like  execrable  jargonisms  ?  I  answer,  because  such 
do  not  exist  in  the  limits  of  the  great  Commonwealth, 
or  if  they  do,  dare  not  give  vocal  or  other  token  of 
Yankee  instruction,  lest  suddenly  they  be  knocked 
down  by  the  earliest  sapling  which  the  Virginian 
who  hears  them  can  wrench  from  our  blessed  soil. 

A  dissenting  Englishman,  wrenched  by  the  vio- 
lence of  his  fanaticism  from  the  nutritious  juices  of 
beef,  and  forced  to  subsist  upon  the  marrowless  in- 
sipidity of  codfish  and  pumpkins,  clams  and  onions, 
the  Yankee  is  not  in  any  sense  a  person.  He  is  a 
chattel  of  the  worst  possible  master — a  machine. 
He  is  a  bad  version  of  Frankenstein — the  trembling 
and  ever  obedient  slave  of  his  own  creation — a  wiper 
and  cleaner  of  the  dirty  iron  structure  made  by  his 
own  hands.  The  highest  of  his  menial  functions  is 
revolting  to  the  white  handed  Virginia  nobleman. 
For  what  loftier  task  has  he  than  to  absterge  the 
grimy  orifices,  joints,  and  bowels  of  a  locomotive. 
Evidently  none.  In  place  of  reason  he  has  cuteness 
— the  faculty  of  invention.  On  this  account  he  is 
tolerated  until  such  time  as  the  Virginians  see  fit  to 
~begin  that  "  irrepressible  conflict "  which  must  in- 
evitably end  in  the  conquest  to  the  daily  habit  of 


176  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

chewing  tobacco,  and  the  right  pronunciation  of 
"  whar,"  of  all  that  part  of  the  habitable  globe  which 
is  capable  of  enlightened  civilization.  So  long  as  it 
shall  seem  advisable  to  countenance  improvements  in 
machinery,  the  legislators  of  Virginia,  holding  now, 
as  they  have  always  done,  and  will  always  do,  abso- 
lute control  of  the  Federal  government,  will  continue 
to  surround  the  Yankee  with  the  protection  of  law, 
and  to  invest  him  with  the  right  of  suffrage,  the  lib- 
erty of  unrestricted  concubinage  according  to  the 
latest  canons  of  free  love,  and  the  full  permission  to 
worship,  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  con- 
science, that  transitory  woolly-headed  idol  known  in 
Virginia  as  a  runaway  nigger.  This  period,  contrary 
to  the  supposition  of  all  Yankees,  and  a  few  of  the 
less  cultivated  Virginians,  will  not  be  of  indefinite 
duration.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  be  brief — quite 
brief.  It  shall  come  to  pass,  some  dull  July  after- 
noon, about  four  years  from  now,  that  a  Virginian, 
hearing  that  Anderson's  fine-cut  tobacco  is  seriously 
interfering  with  the  sale  of  the  legitimate  Orinoco 
plug,  and  learning  from  his  "  Enquirer  "  that  Seward 
has  at  last  laid  his  incendiary  hand  on  the  supreme 
court,  with  intent  to  "reconstruct"  it — that  is,  to 
fill  its  benches  with  Abolitionists — it  shall  then  come 
to  pass  that  a  Virginian,  rousing  from  the  lethargy 
superinduced  by  the  ambrosial  diet  hereafter  to  be 
glorified,  ejecting  his  fist-big  quid  to  replace  it  with 
another  and  a  larger  one,  and  disengaging  his  shoe- 
less feet  from  the  summit  of  the  lofty  mantelpiece, 
will  slowly  repair  to  the  shade  of  a  neighboring 


CORNFIELD  PEA8.  177 

"  honey-shuck  "  tree,  behind  the  ice-house,  and  there 
proceed  to  fasten  his  eyes  into  the  corner  of  a  dilapi- 
dated worm  fence. 

In  silence  so  profound  as  to  be  interrupted  only 
by  the  incessant  song  of  the  jar-fly  and  the  intermit- 
tent gush  of  the  juice  of  his  adored  weed,  he  will  per- 
sist in  meditation  for  the  space  of  twenty  minutes. 
At  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  will  have  done  a 
thing  of  which,  although  it  be  a  work  of  necessity, 
he  will  be  heartily  ashamed — he  will  have  invented 
a  machine  for  the  invention  of  all  kinds  of  machines 
that  may  be  required  throughout  all  coming  time, 
together  with  an  auxiliary  machine  to  attend  to  all 
sorts  of  machines,  to  keep  them  perpetually  greased 
and  in  working  trim,  and  to  repair  any  damage,  how- 
ever extensive,  short  of  entire  destruction,  that  may 
put  them  out  of  running  order.  Overpowered  by 
the  unnatural  and  disgraceful  exertion,  he  will  seek 
relaxation  in  the  uncalled-for  and  undeserved  chas- 
tisement of  a  small  male  nigger,  order  an  early  sup- 
per, eat  a  quart  of  iced  buttermilk  and  four  clods  of 
warm  dough  called  done  biscuit,  and  go  straight  to 
bed.  Unable  to  sleep,  he  will  fret  himself  into  an- 
other fit  of  invention,  the  result  of  which  will  be  a 
machine  for  pursuing,  catching  and  bringing  back 
fugitive  slaves,  to  which  he  will  add  a  patent  steel 
key  for  the  reopening  of  the  African  slave  trade. 
Satisfied  with  this,  his  thoughts  will  rush  joyfully 
back  to  their  natural  channel.  He  will  recur  with 
pleasure  to  the  "  cardinal  principles  of  the  Democratic 
party,"  and  after  spending  a  few  moments  in  blissful 
12 


178  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

contemplation  of  the  resolutions  of  '98,  will  fall  into 
a  stertorous  slumber,  and  enlighten  his  wife  with  his 
somnambulistic  views  of  the  question  of  "  intervention 
for  protection."  In  the  morning  he  will  rise  to  his 
plug  with  more  than  his  wonted  ravenous  avidity, -eat 
some  more  heated  dough  diluted  with  rawish  chicken, 
straddle  a  half -fed  blooded  horse,  and  pace  oif  to  the 
nearest  town,  to  get  a  young  lawyer  to  write  out  an 
account,  preceded  and  concluded  by  a  number  of  po- 
litical reflections,  of  his  inventions  of  the  day  pre- 
vious. This  account  will  be  published  in  the  Rich- 
mond papers,  accompanied  by  leading  editorials, 
complimenting  or  abusing  the  inventor  for  his  party 
affiliations.  From  the  moment  of  that  publication, 
Jonathan  Othello's  occupation  will  be  gone.  He  will 
subsist  for  a  time  on  machine-made  boot-pegs,  after 
which,  finding  no  use  for  his  faculties,  he  will  die  of 
chagrin  and  cerebral,  or  rather  cerebellial  inanition ; 
and  then,  such  consummation  being  for  the  first 
time  possible,  the  approximate  elevation  of  mankind 
toward  the  altitude  of  Virginia  gentlemen  will  begin. 
Recurring  to  the  subject  of  "people,"  it  is  enough 
to  say  of  the  dwellers  in  the  western  and  northwest- 
ern sdction  of  the  Confederacy,  that  a  race  of  aban- 
doned hog-fatteners,  mule-growers,  grain-measurers 
and  hemp-twisters,  could  not,  even  in  the  most  ecstatic 
moments  of  arrogance  inspired  by  bad  whiskey,  call 
themselves  "  people."  To  locate  a  quarter  section  of 
prairie,  to  enter  it,  to  clear  it,  and  then  quit  it,  and  go 
to  Pike's  Peak  and  come  back  in  rags  and  vote  for 
Stephen  A.  Douglass — these  performances,  though 


CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

not  essentially  dishonorable,  do  not  occur  to  me  as 
being  precisely  those  which  a  mature,  unequivocally 
human  would  delight  in.  The  truth  is,  the  cross  be- 
tween the  Virginian  and  the  Yankee,  or  the  German, 
or  any  of  the  inferior  races,  is  never,  except  in  a  sin- 
gle instance,  attended  with  results  at  all  more  encour- 
aging than  the  cross  between  the  horse  and  the  ass. 
On  the  one  hand  we  have  the  hinney  or  hoosier,  an 
entirely  useless  biped ;  and  on  the  other  the  mule  or 
Missourian,  a  very  good  beast  of  draught  when 
"broke."  The  exceptional  instance  alluded  to,  one 
which,  from  a  sense  of  justice  not  less  than  of  per- 
sonal obligation,  I  am  constrained  to  notice,  is  that  of 
the  Virginia  mulatto.  I  have  marvelled,  how  often 
I  know  not,  at  the  gross  and  wanton  neglect  of  this 
delightful  hybrid  by  Virginia  authors  and  editors. 
Why  no  poem  has  ever  been  addressed  to  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  useful  staples  of  our  State  I  could 
never  tell.  Our  literature  is  shamefully  defective 
in  this  regard.  We  have  niggers  in  print  by  the 
thousand,  but  no  mulatto  has  ever  yet  gone  to  press, 
unless  it  be  the  tobacco  press.  And  yet  the  mulatto, 
if  he  be  a  male  and  in  any  way  related  to  the  Declar- 
ation of  Independence,  makes  an  unsurpassed  fiddler ; 
or  if  of  less  eminent  connection,  an  excellent  carriage 
driver  and  an  invaluable  barber.  But  it  is  to  the 
softer  form  of  this  desirable  product  that  our  in- 
debtedness is  greatest.  What  would  this  wrorld  be 
without  a  mulatto  chambermaid  and  washerwoman? 
Nothing,  less  than  nothing.  The  violence  of  my  feel- 
ings will  not  permit  me  to  say  any  more  on  this  point. 


180  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

Only  one  other  kind  of  man  remains  to  be  dis- 
posed of,  that  run-wild  Virginian  entitled  "  South- 
erner." As  I  hope  one  day  to  treat  this  unfortunate 
at  some  length,  I  shall  leave  him  here,  with  the 
mere  observation  that  the  ginning  of  cotton  and  the 
crushing  of  sugar  cane  are  requirements  altogether 
too  rapid  to  be  compatible  with  the  lordly  indolence 
which  in  all  ages  and  in  every  land  has  characterized 
"  people."  It  follows,  since  Virginians  are  the  only 
people  in  the  world,  they  are  necessarily  the  greatest 
people  on  the  face  of  the  terraqueous  globe.  There- 
fore, I  repeat  what  I  said  at  first,  Virginians  are  the 
greatest  people  that  ever  did  or  ever  will  draw  the 
breath  of  life.  For  men,  women,  or  children,  dead 
or  alive,  climate,  soil,  scenery,  rivers,  mountains, 
medicinal  springs,  niggers,  horses,  cattle,  dogs,  fish, 
oysters,  sora,  game  chickens,  apples,  peaches,  blue 
plums,  wood-peckers,  revivals,  gullies,  watermelons, 
tobacco,  chestnuts,  hollow  logs,  chinquapins,  natural 
bridges,  mellow  bugs,  June  apples,  shuck  mats,  per- 
simmons, politicians,  sweet  potatoes,  grassnuts,  hams, 
caves,  Methodist  preachers,  agricultural  fairs,  gold 
and  iron  ores,  light  bread,  dilapidated  houses,  horne- 
spun  clothing,  artichokes,  wasps,  good  coifee,  mul- 
lens,  broom  straw,  waffles,  hollyhocks,  biscuit,  worm 
fences,  apple  jack,  ashcake,  pines,  wild  turkeys,  cider, 
members  of  congress,  whiskey,  candidates  for  the 
presidency,  cymlings,  pipes  and  stems,  turnip  salad, 
shavers  of  paper,  novelists,  unfinished  canals,  poets, 
shoats,  railroads  that  don't  pay,  hotels,  games  of 
knucks,  Democratic  inspectors,  universities,  bar- 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  181 

keepers,  female  schools,  chigoes,  buttermilk,  faro- 
dealers,  horse-cakes,  jig-players,  and  juba-patters — 
no  country  on  earth  will,  as  we  all  well  know,  com- 
pare with  the  Old  Dominion.  If  anybody  is  in- 
clined to  dispute  this,  let  him  address  himself  a  few 
questions. 

Haven't  we  had  the  most  presidents,  the  greatest 
jurists,  orators  and  military  men  ?  Didn't  Revenue 
win  the  $1,000  prize  at  the  St.  Louis  fair?  Can 
this  planet,  or  any  orb  that  floats  in  celestial  space, 
afford  anything  equal  to  a  thoroughgoing,  highbred 
Virginia  sweetheart  ?  Where  will  you  find  a  man 
to  mix  a  julep  equal  to  Lemuel  Bowser's  ?  Was  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi  a  circumstance  compared  to  an 
old  Virginia  gentlewoman  in  a  check  apron,  with  a 
bundle  of  keys  in  a  little  whiteoak  basket  on  her  arm, 
and  a  turkey-wing  fan  in  her  hand  ? 

Is  there  any  chewing  tobacco  in  the  world  like  that 
made  in  Lynchburg  ?  Ain't  Ridgway  the  greatest 
editor  that  ever  put  pen  to  paper  ?  Is  there  a  place 
on  this  continent  or  any  other  where  they  understand 
how  to  cook  fried  chicken  arid  cure  hams  as  they  do 
in  Virginia?  Who  that  ever  smoked  Langhorne  & 
Armistead's  tobacco,  in  a  Woodall  pipe,  would  give 
a  d — n,  or  even  the  fraction  of  a  d — n,  for  any  other 
tobacco,  or  any  other  pipe  ?  Ain't  Hunter,  and  Botts 
and  Wise  the  three  most  prominent  candidates,  after 
Douglass  and  a  dozen  others,  for  the  chief  magistracy 
of  this  Union  ?  Lives  there  the  man  not  a  Virginian 
who  comprehends  the  joys  of  Brunswick  stew,  the 
bliss  of  roas'n  ears,  and  the  rapture  of  pot  liquor? 


182  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

Did  any  boy  but  a  Virginia  boy  ever  catch  cat-fish 
out  of  a  branch  with  a  pin-hook  after  a  heavy  shower  ? 
Point  me  out  the  fellow  who  has  danced  to  the  sound 
of  Henry  Thornton's  fiddle,  and  who  wouldn't  split 
the  Italian  opera  into  splinters  if  he  could,  and  you 
will  point  me  out  a  fool.  The  earth  does  not  produce 
oysters  any  better  than  Carter's  Creek  oysters,  and  you 
will  hunt  through  all  eternity  to  no  purpose  to  find 
sora  superior  to  those  you  get  in  Petersburg.  As  to 
discovering  a  finer  hotel-keeper  than  Tom  Ballard,  the 
very  idea  is  absurd.  Do  you  think  it  possible  that  any 
other  village  of  four  hundred  and  sixty  inhabitants  can 
support  as  many  good  newspapers  as  Fredericksburg  ? 
Did  you  ever  eat  any  snaps  cooked  by  an  old  Virginia 
cook  ?  Look  at  the  equestrian  statue  of  Washington  in 
Richmond.  Contemplate  the  puddle-ducks  of  Prince 
Edward.  Gaze  about  in  all  directions,  and  whenever 
you  find  a  good  thing,  that  thing  is  a  better  thing  in 
Virginia  than  anywhere  out  of  Virginia.  These  ques- 
tions and  simple  statement  of  facts  might,  without  the 
least  difficulty,  be  multiplied  indefinitely.  The  pres- 
ent number,  however,  will  suffice.  The  proof  is  con- 
clusive. Virginians  are  the  greatest  people  on  earth. 
Nevertheless,  they  are  a  very  various  people.  From 
those  stupendous  accumulations  of  beef  and  lime- 
stone which  go  by  the  name  of  men  in  the  county  of 
Montgomery,  to  the  chicken-cart  drivers  of  the  Pa- 
munky,  who,  owing  to  the  oscillations  incident  to 
their  favorite  chills,  are  scarcely  ever  plainly  visible, 
but  who,  when  seen,  present  a  countenance  of  wax? 
embellished  with  turkey-egg  freckles,  and  an  emacia- 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  183 

ted  body,  with  an  ague-cake  on  one  side  balanced  by 
a  tickler  on  the  other, — from  the  former  to  the  lat- 
ter what  an  interval !  Between  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Dismal  Swamp,  who  appear  to  be  composed  of 
bamboo-brier  warp,  with  terrapin  filling,  and  the  rug- 
ged and  ruddy  mountaineers  of  the  northwest,  who 
look  as  if  they  had  been  torn  by  accident  out  of  a 
side  of  sole-leather — what  a  difference  !  Yet  they  are 
all,  more  or  less,  Virginians,  thank  the  Lord  !  and 
consequently,  more  or  less,  the  greatest  people  in  the 
world.  Let  them  be  duly  conscious  and  proud  thereof. 
If  I  were  asked  what  this  "  more  or  less  "  means,  to 
what  it  is  attributable,  and  why  Virginians  are  the 
greatest  of  people,  I  should  say,  quietly  peas.  If  de- 
sire were  expressed-  to  know  what  sort  of  peas,  I 
should  answer,  loudly,  CORNFIELD  PEAS.  In  case  this 
view  should  fail  to  receive  the  cheerful  acquiescence 
of  my  interrogator,  it  would  be  my  duty  and  my 
glee  to  put  his  doubts  for  ever  at  rest  by  the  cogent 
argument  following,  to-wit : 

I.  By  so  much  as  a  man  is  a  Virginian,  by  so  much 
is  he  a  great  man. 

No  sane  mind  .will  dispute  this  proposition. 

II.  Per  contra,  by  so  much  as  a  man  is  not  a  Vir- 
ginian, by  so  much  he  is  not  a  great  man. 

This  proposition  will  not  be  disputed  by  any  sane 
mind. 

III.  By  so  much  as  a  man  is  not  a  great  man,  is 
he  a  little  man,  or  Yankee,  or  foreigner. 

All  sound  intellects  will  agree  that  this  is  a  logical 
inference. 


184  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

IY.  Wherever  you  find  cornfield  peas  most  abun- 
dant, there  you  find  that  the  Virginia  characteristics 
abound  the  most. 

That  is  a  matter  of  fact. 

Y.  Ergo,  it  follows  that  Virginians  are  the  great- 
est people  in  the  world,  because  of  cornfield  peas,  and 
that  they  differ  from  each  other,  are  more  or  less 
Virginians,  and  consequently  more  or  less  great,  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  cornfield  peas 
they  grow  and  devour ;  for  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
no  rational  eye  could  see  a  grown  cornfield  pea  with- 
out instantly  introducing  it  to  a  palate  which  would 
immediately  become  educated  and  enamored. 

The  chain  of  argumentation  is  complete  and  pro- 
foundly irrefutable. 

But  examine  the  physical  geography  of  the  great 
Commonwealth,  and  you  will  find  that  throughout 
the  Tide-water  country,  and  on  the  south-side  of  the 
river  Jeems  (for  mercy's  sake  do  not  call  it  James) 9 
cornfield  peas  are  produced  in  profusion.  And 
where  else  do  you  find  the  unadulterated  Virginian, 
I  would  like  to  know  !  In  the  Piedmont  region 
fewer  cornfield  peas  are  raised,  and  consequently  the 
people  are  not  as  thoroughgoing  Virginians  as  they 
should  be.  They  are  too  fond  of  making  money,  and 
don't  care  enough  about  the  debates  in  the  Conven- 
tion. Why,  they  actually  raise  pippins  in  Nelson  1 
When  people  quit  limber-twigs  and  barkerliners,  and 
get  to  raising  pippins,  you  may  know  that  cornfield 
peas  are  neglected,  and  New  Jersey  tastes  corning 
in.  I  have  my  opinion  of  such  people. 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  185- 

I  have  not  the  cornfield  pea  statistics  of  the  Valley 
at  hand,  but  I  am  willing  to  swear  that  the  annual 
yield  from  Lexington  to  Winchester  wouldn't  fill  an 
Essex  nigger's  tater-hole.  Apprized  of  this  fact,  will 
anybody  hereafter  wonder  at  the  appearance  of  the 
Ruffner  pamphlet  ?  Surely  not.  Yet  this  im- 
portant fact,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection  and  be- 
lief, was  never  mentioned  during  the  whole  of  the 
gubernatorial  canvass.  But,  to  test  the  matter,  be- 
gin at  the  lower  end,  the  collar  bone  of  the  Northern 
Neck,  and  travel  up.  You  start  in  the  midst  of 
unlimited  cornfield  peas  and  pure  Virginians,  but  by 
the  time  you  get  to  Prince  William  you  see  scarcely 
any  cornfield  peas,  and  hear  people  calling  "  fo'pence  " 
"  fippenny  bit !"  Dad  shine  such  a  set!  When  I 
got  off  the  cars  to  go  to  Brentsville,  the  county  seat 
of  Prince  William  (and  a  drearier  place  I  never  sawr 
except  ISTew  Glasgow),  a  lad  had  the  audacity  to  call 
a  ninepence  a  k<  shill'n,"  right  close  to  my  ear.  To 
the  latest  hour  of  my  life  I  shall  regret  that  I  did 
not  stab  him  to  the  heart  with  a  Barlow  knife,  which- 
I  always  carry,  because  I  am  a  Virginian. 

In  Alexandria  I  am  convinced  that  they  seldom 
eat  cornfield  peas ;  at  Harper's  Ferry  none  at  all  ,~ 
and  in  the  Pan  Handle  they  never .  heard  of  them. 
Wheeling,  Parkersburg,  SbepherdstowTn,  Clarksburg,. 
Woodstock,  and  along  there,  must  be  very  deficient  in 
cornfield  peas.  I  suppose  some  of  the  inhabitants  of 
these  unhappy  places  emigrated  from  Eastern  Vir- 
ginia, and,  having  eaten  abundantly  of  cornfield  peas 
in  childhood  and  youth,  retain  enough  of  the  noble- 


186  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

-constituents  in  their  bones  to  give  tone  and  character 
to  the  towns  they  dwell  in.  As  to  Abingdon  and 
the  Southwest  generally,  I  have  my  grave  doubts.  I 
reckon  some  small  cornfield  peas  are  raised  in  that 
section,  but,  when  eaten,  become  so  mixed  with 
goose  fat,  taken  from  the  neighboring  goose  farms 
of  Tennessee,  as  to  lose  half  their  virtues,  and  so 
give  rise  to  a  set  of  people  not  exactly  low,  but  de- 
cidedly Brownlow  in  character  and  habits.  I  trust 
the  next  Legislature  will  see  the  necessity  of  sending 
out  a  large  number  of  cornfield  pea  missionaries  to 
stock  that  country  with  the  essential  element  of  Vir- 
ginia greatness. 

It  will  be  seen,  then,  that  wherever  in  Virginia 
there  is  a  deficiency  in  the  crop  or  a  neglect  of  the 
culture  of  cornfield  peas,  just  there  the  pernicious 
traits  of  Northern  and  Western  character  creep  in. 
Hence,  further,  the  chemical  inference  that  the  es- 
.sential  oil  or  active  principle  of  cornfield  peas  (what 
might  be  called  cornfield  peanine)  would,  if  copiously 
.administered  to  the  Yankee  or  the  Hoosier,  turn  him 
into  a  Virginian.  Although  I  am  not  so  clear  on 
this  point,  1  should  dislike  to  see  the  experiment  tried 
on  a  large  scale.  It  is  true,  it  might  result  happily, 
might  deabolitionize  the  Northern  masses,  and  put 
an  end  to  the  eternal  agitation  of  slavery.  But  I  arn 
opposed,  yet  a  while,  to  this  wholesale  transmutation 
of  useful  menials  into  gentlemen.  If  we  were  all 
gentlemen,  existence  would  be  intolerable.  Life  is 
not  worth  a  button  to  a  Virginian  who  cannot  look 
down  with  infinite  scorn  upon  nearly  everybody  else. 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  1ST 

I  thank  my  ignorance  that  I  have  not'the  remotest 
suspicion  of  what  the  botanical  name  of  the  corn- 
iield  pea  is.  I  know  that  it  is  found  in  a  curved, 
bumpy  pod,  three  of  which,  if  straightened  out, 
would  be  about  as  long  as  a  leading  editorial  in  the 
Hichmond  Whig.  The  outside  of  this  pod  is  a  lit- 
tle rough,  resembling  green  velvet,  and  the  inside  is 
lined  with  white  vegetable  satin.  In  this  sumptuous 
bed  of  the  interior  repose  a  half  dozen  or  so  of  the 
blessed  globules.  There  are  several  varieties — the 
best  of  which,  according  to  the  sworn  statement  of 
my  own  and. many  other  respectable  and  reliable 
palates,  is  the  kind  called  the  Grey  Crowd er.  As 
its  name  implies,  this  noble  pea  is  planted  in  the 
cornfield,  and,  unlike  the  miserable  Marrowfat,  it 
climbs,  not  a  dead  stick,  but  rises  beside  a  living  and 
towering  stalk.  So  far  from  injuring  the  corn,  it 
benefits  its  growth ;  if  not  during  its  (the  pea's)  life- 
time, after  its  (the  pea's)  death;  for  it  is  a  notorious 
fact,  that  the  cornfield  pea  improves  land  better  than 
Peruvian  guano,  and  almost  as  well  as  Kuffin's  ferti- 
lizer. As  an  edible,  the  vegtable  has  not  its  equal. 
It  is  good  for  man  and  beast  and  nigger.  It  does 
not  agree  with  Irishmen.  Its  nutritious  properties 
.are  unsurpassed.  It  is  the  concentrated  quintessence 
of  the  delightful.  It  is  harmless.  It  may  be  eaten 
in  any  quantity.  It  is  hard  to  quit  eating  it.  It 
does  you  good  all  over.  It  is  fine  for  the  general 
health.  It  fattens  you  up ;  makes  you  strong  and 
sassy.  Its  taste  is  indescribably  delicious.  In  brief, 
it  is  meat,  drink,  lodging,  house-rent,  taxes,  and  a 
Jree  ticket  to  the  fair  and  back  again. 


188  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

You  wretclied,  wretched  guzzlers  and  gormandi- 
zers! you  that  sit  at  the  would-be  splendid  tables  of 
the  Metropolitan,  St.  .Nicholas,  Girard,  and  Revere, 
gobbling  up  your  pates,  terrenes,  ragouts  and  fricas- 
sees, swilling  your  Burgundy  and  Imperial  out  of  your 
wine-coolers !  there  is,  if  you  did  but  know  it,  on 
this  earth,  or  rather  in  its  Eden,  Virginia,  a  diviner 
thing  than  your  poor  tongues  ever  tasted.  "What, 
namely  ?"  Peas,  egad  !  Aye  ! — cornfield  peas ! — the 
central,  ethereal,  intensely-condensed,  elaborated,, 
sempiternal,  luxurious  fruition  of  all  that  is  nectare- 
ous,  ambrosial,  vivifying  and  exalting  in  the  wide 
realm  of  nature's  alchemy.  Too  good,  too  good  for 
you,  ye  Northern  gormandizers,  ye  urban  bibblers ! 
Fit  diet  only  for  gods,  for  Virginians,  and  for  nig- 
gers !  Not  a  pea,  not  a  fragment  of  a  pea,  not  the 
smallest  black  eye  of  a  pea,  not  even  a  pea-shell,  or 
the  glimpse  thereof,  shall  ye  have ;  no,  not  to  save 
this  mighty  Union. 

Properly  to  understand  the  indescribable  merits  of 
the  cornfield  pea,  and  to  enjoy  the  same,  one  must 
know  how  to  prepare  it.  They  are  never  eaten  raw? 
except  in  the  sterile  lands  adjoining  the  North  Caro- 
lina line.  There,  I  am  told,  they  are  inclosed  in  a 
paste  composed  of  persimmons  and  tar,  and  in  this 
state  much  relished  by  ladies  during  the  intervals  of 
snuff-dipping.  In  the  grand  Commonwealth,  how- 
ever, the  true  scientific  method  of  preparing  them 
for  the  table  is  as  follows:  Gather  your  peas  before 
sundown,  ere  the  dew  falls.  On  the  morrow,  at  or 
about  ten  or  eleven  of  the  clock,  extricate  your  peas 


CORNFIELD  PEAS.  189 

from  their  natural  wrappings  by  a  dexterous  manipu- 
lation of  the  thumb-nail,  after  the  manner  of  goug- 
ing out  the  eyes  of  a  courthouse  adversary.  Rinse 
your  peas.  Then  parbile  (yes,  bile — I  will  say  bile) 
p&rbile  them.  Next  fry  them  with  two  or  three  or 
more  slices  (according  to  the  quantity  of  peas  cooked) 
of  streaked  middling,  encouraging  as  much  as  possi- 
ble the  exudation  of  the  bacon  gravy,  retaining  and 
disseminating  the  same  throughout  the  luguminous 
collection  by  the  instrumentality  or  process  of  gently 
mashing  the  individual  members  or  peas  with  a  spoon. 
The  agglutinated  composite  of  grease  and  of  peas 
.should  now  present  a  dark  brown,  but  not  quite 
scorched  aspect,  and  such  being  the  case,  your  peas, 
after  being  emptied  into  a  deepish  dish,  may  be 
swiftly  transferred  from  the  kitchen  to  the  table. 

But  you  are  by  no  means  ready,  however  much 
you  may  think  so,  to  eat  your  peas,  unless  you  have 
earnestly  studied  the  harmonies  of  food,  and  with 
especial  reference  to  the  unchangeable  affinities  of 
the  cornfield  pea.  A  brief  hint  of  explanation  will 
make  my  meaning  clear,  perchance,  to-wit :  butter- 
milk and  ashcake  go  together,  don't  they  ?  Hoecake 
and  sweet  milk — middling  and  snaps — ham  and  cab- 
bage— bacon  and  greens — beefsteak  and  onions — 
chine  and  turnips — lamb  and  green  peas — jole  and 
turnip  sallet,  (not  salad) — sweet  potatoes  and  young 
ducks — shoat  and  butter  beans — and  so  on;  all  these 
fit  into  one  another  and  make  each  other  better,  hey? 
Well,  cornfield  peas  have  a  partner,  to  which  they 
are  attached  as  passionately,  and  even  more  so,  than 
any  of  the  couples  just  named. 


190  CORNFIELD  PEAS. 

As  for  meats,  there  are  but  two  real  old  Virginia, 
meats — bacon  and  fried  chicken,  and  cornfield  peas- 
go  well  with  either  of  them.  I  have  heard  of  people 
who  ate  the  divine  pea  with  veal,  and  mention  was 
once  made  to  me  of  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  whose 
habit  was  to  mix  baked  eels  with  cornfield  peas ;  but 
Heaven  has  kindly  preserved  me  from  witnessing 
spectacles  of  such  idiocy.  The  precise,  and  indeed 
the  only  harmonious  companion  of  cornfield  peas  m 
tomatoes,  ("a"  broad,  very  broad — as  thus,  "to-mar- 
tus,"  if  you  please.)  But  your  tomatoes  must  not 
be  cooked.  They  must  be  raw.  They  must  be 
peeled  and  sliced  in  slices  not  too  thin.  They  must 
not  be  dressed  with  vinegar,  pepper  and  salt,  and  the 
like  of  that.  Or  with  mustard.  Or  associated  with 
cucumbers.  They  must  be  sprinkled  with  a  little — 
not  much — sugar;  not  white  sugar,  always,  invari- 
ably brown  sugar.  Let  nothing  tempt  you  from 
brown.  Sprinkled  with  a  little  brown  sugar,  finely 
divided  with  a  knife,  and  intimately  mingled  with 
the  peas,  the  immortal  dish  is  utterly  ready. 

Now  !  Fall  to.  Don't  eat  slowly.  Eat  fast,  and 
take  large  mouthfuls — a  knife  blade,  heaped  up  the 
whole  length,  at  every  pop.  Say  not  a  word.  An- 
swer no  questions.  Keep  your  eyes  immovably 
fixed  on  your  peas.  Come  down  steadily  to  your 
work.  Fill  your  plate  again  and  again.  Once  more. 
A  quart  every  time.  Don't  be  alarmed.  Eat  on. 
Let  out  girth.  Unbutton  your  waistcoat.  Make  a 
fresh  start.  Scorn  the  imputation  of  a  memory  that 
charges  you  with  already  having  had  some  peas.  Let 


CORNFIELD  PEA6.  191 

your  intrepid  stomach  give  the  lie  to  your  recollec- 
•tion.  Eat  more.  Eat  a  heap  more.  Stop  ?  Never 
while  there  is  a  pea  in  the  dish.  You  must  not 
starve.  What !  When  the  low  grounds  are  full  of 
peas.  Away  with  the  haggard  thought.  Banish  the 
emaciated  conception.  Keep  on  eating.  But  why 
don't  you  eat  f  Thar's  plenty.  "  Another  plateful  ?"' 
That's  sensible ;  that's  what  I  call  a  coming  appetite.. 
No,  no,  no ;  don't  snatch  your  plate  away — a  man  is 
never  helped  until  his  plate  is  packed  eight  inches 
high.  Pitch  in,  freely,  fearlessly,  copiously,  Appo- 
mattoxly.  Ah  !  that's  the  lick.  Now  you're  coming 
to  town.  Hand  over  hand.  Go  it!  Rip!  Now 
one  last,  long,  large,  illimitable  mouthful,  and  you 
are  done.  "Ah — a — a!"  "  You  feel  good;  you're 
bound  to  feel  good.  Stop  !  not  an  inch,  don't  budge 
an  inch,  or  you  are  a  dead  man,  dead  as  Hector." 

"Boy!  take  this  gentleman  up  in  his  chair  and 
carry  him  round  to  the  shady  side  of  the  house  and 
keep  the  flies  off  him  till  sundown.  You  hear ! 
Quick  sir  !  Mark  time  !  Forward  ! — march  !" 

Pea !  blessed  pea !  thrice-blessed  cornfield  pea ! — 
sublime  pellet !  celestial  molecule  !  divine  little  gob  ! 
— oh!  pluperfect  ellipse  of  vegetable  fatness  and 
sweetness !  how  much  is  due  to  thee.  All  that  Yir- 
ginia  is,  or  has  been,  or  can  be,  is  owed  to  thee. 
Without  thee  there  is  no  Virginia.  The  majesty  of 
our  mothers,  the  honor  of  our  sires,  the  beauty  of 
our  daughters,  the  courage  of  our  sons,  the  strength 
of  our  slaves,  the  fertility  of  our  soil,  the  salubrity  of 
our  climate,  and  the  magnificence  of  our  scenery,  I 


192  COBNFIELD  PEAS. 

.ascribe  to  thee.  Our  glorious  Past  began  with  a 
"  P."  Our  Patriotism,  our  Pride,  our  Power,  our 
Politics,  our  Pre-eminence,  commence  with  a  P. 
Our  Progress  is  nothing  without  a  P.  The  very 
name  of  Patrick  Henry  starts  with  a  P.  Thomas 
Jefferson  wrote  with  a  Pen,  two-thirds  of  which  was 
-a  "-Pe."  Chief  Justice  Marshall  delivered  his  de- 
cisions in  a  Court  that  would  never  have  been  Su- 
preme without  a  P.  More  blessed  than  these,  the 
Pater  Patrice,  could  boast  a  double  P — two  capital 
P's.  The  essence  of  Peas  interpermeated  his  pure 
and  inapproachable  spirit.  The  soul  of  Washington 
was  a  solid  cornfield  pea ! 


MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION. 

A  RAMBLING  SUMMER  PIECE. 


WHEN  yon  got  to  the  little  town  of  F , 
look  out  of  the  car  window,  O  passenger  on 

the  S side  railroad!   and  you  will    see   an   old 

gentleman,  with  a  long  knotty  staff  in  his  hand,  a 
broad-brimmed  white  wool  hat  on  his  head,  a  heavy 
iron-grey  beard  on  his  chin,  a  small  long-tail  black 
coat,  out  at  elbows,  on  his  back,  and  tow-linen  panta- 
loons on  his  nether  extremities — a  striking  object  in 
the  large  motley  crowd  which  swarms  around  the 
depot  every  time  the  train  arrives.  This  is  my 
Uncle  Flatback,  come  to  town  to  get  the  mail  and 
take  notes  of  every  man  who  enters  the  bar-room,  in 
the  basement  of  that  commodious  tavern  you  see 
across  the  way.  A  remarkable  man  is  old  Flatback 
— "Uncle  Jeems,"  or,  in  that  negro  dialect  which 
Yirginians  so  delight  in,  uUnc'  Jirn" — as  he  is  gen- 
erally called,  for  short.  Do  you  wish  to  know  more 
of  him  ?  You  will  get  out  of  the  cars,  follow  the  rail- 
road track  through  the  Deep  Cut,  over  the  Buffalo 
Bridge  and  along  the  great  embankment,  until  you 
come  to  a  persimmon  tree  on  the  right  hand  side  of 
the  road.  Looking  to  the  South,  you  catch  a  glimpse 
of  a  house  embosomed  in  trees,  with  stables  and  other 
13 


194          MY  UNCLE  FIATBACK'S  PLANTATION. 

outhouses  close  by.  That  is  the  Flatback  mansion, 
dubbed  Mountain  View,  from  the  circumstance  that 
the  blue  knob  of  a  mountain,  in  an  adjacent  county, 
is  visible  from  the  premises. 

I  am  sure  you  will  like  Uncle  Flatback's  house 
and  yard — the  former  is  so  cool  and  roomy,  the  lat- 
ter so  level,  green  and  shady.  Indeed,  there  are  two 
houses,  an  old  and  a  new  one,  joined  by  a  covered 
passage,  with  folding  doors,  which  when  thrown 
wide  open,  in  the  summer  time,  turn  the  passage  into 
a  porch — the  most  -delightful  part  of  the  house  ;  for 
the  breeze  is  always  blowing  there.  The  old  house 
is  charming,  I  think.  It  is  only  a  story  and-a-half 
high,  and  is  built  in  that  solid,  honest  way  which 
was  the  rule  every  where  in  Virginia  before  the 
new-fangled,  flimsy,  slazy  style  of  the  Yankees  was 
introduced.  The  chimneys  are  in  one  corner  of  the 
rooms,  and  being  big,  old-fashioned,  triangular  fel- 
lows— enough  bricks  in  one  of  them  to  make  a 
modern  house — one  chimney  answers  for  half  a 
dozen  rooms,  if  need  be ;  consequently  the  rooms 
are  five-sided  instead  of  square — which  pleases  me 
mightily,  because  it  is  Virginian,  and  smacks  of  the 
old  days.  If  ever  I  build  a  house,  I  shall  pattern 
after  the  old  Virginia  style.  Hang  your  model  cot- 
tages— your  suburban  villas — your  Hudson  river 
•contraptions ;  I'd  as  soon  eat  cod-fish  chowder  and 
cold  bread,  or  subscribe  to  a  Yankee  newspaper,  as 
live  in  one  of  them. 

There  are  four  rooms  below,  including  the  dining 
room,  and  two  above  stairs,  in  the  old  house.  Uncle 


195 

Platback  inhabits  the  room  next  to  the  little  back 
porch,  which  looks  towards  the  kitchen,  the  negro 
quarters,  the  corn  house  and  the  stable.  His  door 
is  never  locked  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  It 
is  true,  there  are  two  double-barrel  guns  and  a  rifle 
in  the  corner  by  the  wardrobe,  but  they  are  never 
loaded,  except  when  a  crow  or  a  hawk  comes  near 
the  house,  and  as  the  old  load  has  always  to  be  drawn 
— lightning  would  hardly  explode  it — before  the  new 
one  is  put  in,  you  may  judge  in  what  danger  thieves, 
feathered  or  unfeathered,  stand  at  Mountain  View. 
The  back  porch,  facing  east,  receives  the  first  rays 
of  the  morning  sun,  and  is  shady  nearly  all  day; 
hence  it  is  a  favorite  resort  of  mine,  though  I  am 
generally  in  the  way,  for  there  is  always  some  house- 
hold business  going  on  here — some  slicing  of  cur- 
cumbers  (call  'em  fefcumbers?  NEVER!)  shelling 
of  peas,  washing  of  butter  or  rinsing  (I'd  rather  say 
rensing,  yea,  even  renching,  if  you  will  allow  me)  of 
things.  But  I  love  to  see  people  slice  curcumbers- 
and  shell  peas.  Then  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be  where 
you  can  see  dinner  coming  in — where  the  dishes  are 
stopped  on  the  way  and  fixed  up — more  butter  put 
in  the  beets,  a  little  more  pepper  in  the  stew,  and  so 
on. 

I  have  a  passion  for  porches.     To  me,  a  porch  is 

A  thing  of  beauty — a  joy  for  ever, 

except  in  very  cold  weather.  If  I  had  the  building 
of  a  house,  I  would  make  it  mostly  of  porches,  upper 
and  lower,  with  a  room  or  so  hung  here  and  there  on 


196 

a  nail  driven  into  the  pillars.  Had  I  been  unfor- 
tunate enough  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  the  an- 
cients, I  would  have  kept  a  stoa — not  that  I  have 
any  mercantile  talent — and  talked  philosophy  and 
"  High  Die  "  against  the  best  of  them,  with  my  heel& 
on  the  "  bannisters "  and  a  pipe  in  my  mouth.  If 
Socrates  had  come  fooling  after  me,  trying  to  trap 
me,  I  would  have  told  him  I  was  a  hardshell  Baptist,, 
given  him  a  chew  of  tobacco,  and  requested  him  to 
behave  himself.  But  I  wouldn't  give  a  white  bone 
button  to  have  lived  in  the  days  when  the  domestic 
negro  and  fried  chicken,  with  plenty  of  creamy 
gravy  and  a  few  sprigs  of  fresh  parsley,  were  un- 
known. The  Greek  is  a  fine  language,  but  I  prefer 
Yirginian.  It  has  no  aorist,  no  middle  voice,  and 
other  woes  to  the  early  getter-by-heart.  A  Virginian 
can  say  what  he  has  got  to  say  without  regard  to 
grammar — that  vile  infraction  of  the  Bill  of  Rights 
and  the  liberties  of  the  people.  I  contend  that  free- 
dom of  speech  is  possible  only  in  Virginia. 

Then  again,  I  couldn't  have  gone  the  ancient  cos- 
tume. It  is  picturesque,  does  well  for  marble,  and 
for  historical  paintings  in  oil,  but  it  is  sadly  unfit  for 
a  citizen  of  Buckingham  or  Prince  Edward.  Im- 
agine a  man  walking  through  a  new  ground,  or  a 
ploughed  field,  with  a  great  sheet  flapping  at  his 
calves.  He  would  feel  worse  than  a  woman.  Con- 
sider him  in  a  brier  patch.  How  would  a  body  get 
over  a  fence,  ride  a  horse,  or  chase  a  hare,  say  no- 
thing of  climbing  for  coons  ?  In  the  saddle,  my 
breeches  have  a  grievous  tendency  upward  anyway, 


197 

as  if  the  washerwoman  had  starched  them  with 
leaven  ;  what  on  earth  would  become  of  me  in  a 
toga  f  I  would  show  ankles  higher  than  a  circus 
rider,  or  a  White  Sulphur  belle  dancing  the  German ; 
I  couldn't  bear  to  go  to  town  unless  the  people  would 
do  as  they  did  when  Queen  Godiva  rode  through  the 
streets  of  Coventry.  No,  you  painters  keep  your 
grand  historical  wardrobes ;  give  me  a  straw  hat,  an 
oznaburg  shirt,  no  waistcoat,  tow-linen  pantaloons, 
with  yarn  "gallowses,"  home-made  cotton  socks  and 
a  pair  of  low-quarter  shoes,  moderately  thick-soled, 
made  by  Booker  Jackson. 

The  attic  rooms,  up  the  "little  stars,"  in  the  old 
house,  are  delightful  to  sleep  in  when  the  summer 
rains  are  drumming  lullabies  with  their  soft  wet 
knuckles  on  the  mossy  shingles,  or  in  winter  when 
the  icy  gusts  suck  up  the  flames  from  the  deep  little 
fire-place.  I  know  not  why  it  is  that  attics,  with 
their  sloping  ceilings  and  little  windows  on  either 
side  of  the  chimney, 

Where  the  sun  comes  peeping  in  at  morn, 

have  such  attraction  for  me.  Don't  let's  analyze 
feelings  ;  vivisections  are  so  horrid,  and  the  weather, 
to-day,  is  so  warm.  Who  can  trace  the  origin  of 
ideas  and  emotions,  when  the  thermometer  is  90°  in 
the  shade  ?  Who  can  be  a  metaphysician  with  a  fly 
in  the  burr  of  his  ear,  and  two  on  his  forehead  ? 
Locke  himself  couldn't.  Dear  reader,  you  know 
what  a  country — not  a  hotel — attic  is.  The  very 
nam  e  brings  back  the  days  of  childhood,  with  a  thou- 


198 

sand  gentle  memories,  which  we  may  hint  but  never 
tell.  And  if  you  have  ever  been  so  happy  as  to 
lodge  in  an  attic  tenanted  by  a  young  lady,  who 
makes  way  for  you  because  the  house  is  small,  or  the 
guests  are  many,  then  memories  brighter  than  any 
of  childhood  are  yours  for  ever,  and  thenceforth  at- 
tics are  sacred  in  your  eyes.  My  good  fortune,  not 
very  many  weeks  ago,  led  me  to  a  little  upper  cham- 
ber in  a  house  on  ground  which  has  since  become 
historical.  The  dormer  windows  of  that  little  cham- 
ber looked  out  upon  the  Chickahominy. 

A  feeling  of  awe  comes  over  the  sinner  as  he  ven- 
tures tremblingly  into  the  sanctuary  where  Sleep, 
the  good  old  nun,  keeps  watch  over  the  maiden 
Virtue.  He  puts  the  candle  upon  the  spotless  dress- 
ing table  and  stands  irresolute.  All  is  so  still — so 
tidy  and  orderly ;  so  clean  and  fair ;  so  sweet  and 
pure.  Angels  are  here.  He  sees  their  robes  in  the 
curtains  of  the  windows,  the  drapery  of  the  chaste 
couch  and  the  dressing  table.  What  shall  he  do  ? 
How  dare  he  get  in  that  bed  ?  The  pictures  on  the 
wall  are  looking  at  him ;  the  mirror  is  a  great  big 
glaring  eye.  What !  disrobe  here  ?  Not  he.  He 
catches  sight  of  his  pale,  distressed  face  in  the  look- 
ing-glass, and  laughs  a  low  laugh  at  himself.  Uneasy, 
delighted  wretch.  He  wouldn't  be  out  of  here  for 
the  world,  but  he  don't  know  what  to  do.  He  is 
afraid  to  move,  lest  he  disarrange  or  knock  down 
something.  Finally,  after  much  cogitation  and  per- 
plexment,  he  thinks  it  will  be  no  harm  to  sit  down 
in  that  little  chair  in  the  corner,  and  steps  softly  to- 


199 

wards  it,  bumping  his  head  as  he  goes  along.  "  Dear 
me  !  what  low  chairs  ladies  do  use  !"  A  view  of  the 
whole  room — half  in  shadow,  half  in  shine — pleases 
him  much.  He  contrasts  it  with  his  own  disorderly 
bachelor's  den,  and  sighs.  One  by  one  he  takes  in 
each  separate  object,  marks  them  all  with  a  note  of 
admiration,  and  at  length  fixes  his  eyes  permanently 
on  not  the  smallest  article  of  furniture  in  the  room. 
'Long  time  he  broods  over  it,  his  blameless  thought 

"  Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss." 

He  thinks  of  the  nest  of  some  white-winged  dove — 
the  shell  of  the  pearl  of  purest  ray  serene.  u  Bless 
her  sweet  soul !"  ends  his  reverie,  and  up  he  rises, 
for  it  is  getting  late,  and  he  must  decide  upon  the 
course  he  shall  pursue  till  morning.  Grown  bolder, 
he  presumes  to  touch  the  little  bottles  of  Bohemian 
glass  on  the  toilet  table,  and  marvels  much  at  every 
thing — deeming  womankind  wonderful  creatures  in 
all  their  ways,  and  envying  the  hardihood  of  those 
courageous  men  whose  brazen  and  impudent  nerves 
carry  them  unfalteringly  through  all  the  "  masked 
batteries"  and  feminine  mysteries  which  surround 
and  terrify  him  here  at  dead  of  night.  He  takes  up 
tenderly,  as  if  they  were  so  many  infants,  the  books 
that  lie  on  the  dormer  window  sill,  reads  their  titles, 
approves  the  literary  taste  of  the  young  lady,  and 
lays  them  carefully  down  again,  exactly  as  they  were 
before  he  put  his  profane  hands  upon  them,  listen- 
ing the  while,  and  hoping  nobody  down  stairs  hears 
him  fumbling  about ;  for  now  it  is  very  late  indeed. 


200 

The  candle  is  in  the  socket — he  must  do  something. 
What !  Ah  !  now  he  has  it.  He  will  play  hench- 
man to  his  lady  love,  lie  down  outside  the  door,  and 
guard  her  chamber,  as  though  she  herself  were  sleep- 
ing there.  But  the  servant,  unacquainted  with  ro- 
mance, coming  in  the  morning  to  bring  fresh  water 
and  black  his  shoes,  and  finding  him  stretched  in  the 
passage  with  his  clothes  on,  will  declare  he  is  drunk. 
At  last,  his  candle  being  out,  he  remembers  that  he 
was  sent  here  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  accustomed  mode, 
and  praying  to  be  forgiven,  he  reclines  upon  the 
outermost  edge  of  the  dove's  nest,  yields  him  to 
sweet  fancies,  which  presently  become  dreams,  and 
so — good  night  to  him,  for  'tis  the  happiest  of  his 
life. 

We  return  to  the  "  little  stars  "  which  lead  to  the 
attic  in  the  old  house  at  Mountain  Yiew,  in  order 
that  we  may  notice  the  workmanship.  Here  is  ad- 
mirable carpentry — joining  such  as  you  rarely  see  in 
these  degenerate  days,  and  material  unknown  to  our 
impatient  green-timber  times.  How  firm  the  steps 
are  under  foot  and  how  unworn,  although  they  have 
been  in  daily  use  full  half  a  century.  It  is  true  the 
light  slippered  feet  of  ladies  and  the  bare  soles  of 
Ethiopian  and  mulatto  maids  have  frequented  this 
sturdy  little  staircase,  but  the  very  grain  of  the  wood, 
polished  to  the  neck-breaking  point,  shows  what  hon- 
est wrorkmen  our  fathers  were. 

I  would  like  for  you  to  rest  a  moment  in  the  room 
at  the  foot  of  the  attic  staircase,  because  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  There  is  nothing  in  this  room  to 


201 

attract  attention,  except  a  red-cushioned  settee  and 
one  of  those  old-fashioned  combinations  of  book-case, 
desk,  and  bureau,  which  are  becoming  so  rare. 
When  I  first  set  up  in  life — wtat  21,  as  M.  D. — I 
owned  one  of  these  old  conveniences,  but  sold  it  in 
less  than  a  year,  like  a  fool.  How  I  could  have 
managed  to  lug  the  thing  about  with  me  in  my  mani- 
fold wanderings,  subsequent  to  the  Esculapian  era,  it 
is  impossible  to  say ;  but  if  ever  I  do  get  settled  in 
a  country  home  I  intend  to  have  a  "  secretary  " — 
what  a  fine  old  name  ! — at  the  risk  of  my  life.  How 
in  the  name  of  sense  is  a  country  gentleman  to  get 
along  without  a  secretary,  with  its  endless  pigeon 
holes  and  secret  drawers  to  keep  his  shot  gourds, 
powder  horns,  cap  boxes,  bonds,  accounts,  and  odds 
and  ends  of  everything  in,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Why,  it  wouldn't  be  worth  a  man's  while  to  have  a 
son  without  a  "  secretary "  to  unlock  for  him  on 
rainy  days,  as  a  special  and  very  great  favor :  nor 
would  there  be  any  place  to  hide  things  from  a  man's 
wife.  It  is  folly  to  expect  a  boy  to  entertain  proper 
respect  for  a  father  who  doesn't  own  a  "  secretary  " 
— that  wonderful  household  museum  and  arcanum 
of  manhood's  great  mysteries  and  treasures. 

But  about  the  little  room  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case. Listen. 

One  summer  night,  years  ago,  long  before  my 
Uncle  Flatback  ever  dreamed  of  living  here,  a 
young  lady  tripped  noiselessly  down  these  old  stair 
steps,  then  almost  new,  and  jumped  out  of  the  win- 
dow. The  wheat,  heavy  with  dew,  was  growing  up 


202 

to  the  very  walls  of  the  house,  and  lest  the  young 
lady's  clothes  might  get  wet,  an  obliging  young  gen- 
tleman is  at  hand,  to  receive  her  in  his  arms  and  carry 
her  through  the  wheat  field.  In  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  some  hundred  yards  off,  a  handsome  vehicle, 
drawn  by  blooded  horses,  is  waiting.  Eound  go  the 
wheels — off  fly  the  young  couple  through  the  forest, 
and  ere  the  morrow's  sun  is  set,  they  are  in  North 
Carolina,  married.  Very  fair  and  sweet  and  gentle 
was  the  young  lady ;  very  brave  and  wild  was  her 
lover — too  wild,  the  old  folks  thought,  for  so  sweet 
a  girl.  But  love  tamed  the  bold  lover,  and  this 
proved  the  happiest  of  run-a-way  matches.  Many 
sons  and  daughters  were  born  unto  them,  and — rare 
good  fortune  in  this  chequered  life! — all  of  them 
crowned  their  parents  heads  with  honor.  A  more 
prosperous  and  respected  family  dwells  not  within 
the  limits  of  the  Commonwealth.  One  of  the  sons  was 
the  captain  of  our  company  at  Manassas — the  sturdy 

"Rifle  Grays"  of  L .    Brave  as  his  sire,  he  rose 

to  be  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  "  gallant  Eleventh," 
and  now  lies  sick  of  a  severe  wound  received  in 
the  fierce  battle  of  the  Seven  Pines.  How  the 
years  have  sped  since  the  night  in  which  the  lovers 
eloped  from  this  old  house !  Many  years  have  come 
and  gone  over  the  sleeping  dust  of  the  maiden  who 
leaped  out  of  that  window.  I  remember  her  in  the 
prime  of  womanhood,  and  she  was  sweet  and  gentle 
and  beautiful  then.  The  snows  of  seventy  winters 
lie  on  the  brow  of  the  bold  lover,  but  the  fire  of  his 
youth  is  not  spent,  and  he  is  passing  the  evening  of 


203 

his  days  peacefully  away  in  the  midst  of  his  children, 
and  his  children's  children,  honored  and  beloved  by 
all.  This  happy  romance  always  repeats  itself  to  me 
when  I  seat  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  "  little  stars," 
and  look  out  of  the  window,  and  listen  to  the  sum- 
mer winds  sighing  through  the  leaves  of  the  stout 
aspen  which  has  grown  up  in  the  old  wheat  field, 
now  a  verdant  yard. 

I  shall  not  detain  you  with  a  minute  description 
of  the  new  house,  which,  as  you  know,  is  joined  to 
the  old  by  a  covered  passage.  It  is  a  more  preten- 
tious but  far  less  substantial  edifice  than  its  humble 
companion.  On  the  ground  floor  there  is  a  high- 
pitched  parlor — what  has  become  of  all  the  "draw- 
ing-rooms" we  used  to  have  five-and-twerity  years 
ago,  I  wonder?  and  over  the  parlor  there  are  two 
chambers,  also  high-pitched,  and  above  them  a  size- 
able garret.  So  you  see  this  modern  structure,  which 
every  thunder-gust  shakes  to  its  foundation,  is  tall 
enough  to  look  down  with  contempt  on  the  old  house. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  disparity  in  years  and  stat- 
ure, the  two  seem  to  get  along  very  well  together. 
The  hard,  mathematical  eye  of  a  Yankee  would  be 
offended  at  the  juxtaposition  of  so  uneven  a  couple, 
but,  thank  God !  we  in  Virginia  are  used  to  these  in- 
congruous architectural  matches.  It  will  be  a  sad 
day  for  us  when  there  is  any  regularity  about  any- 
thing in  Virginia.  When  people  begin  to  build 
houses  "  on  the  square,"  they  begin  to  calculate — or,, 
to  give  the  word  its  idiomatic  meanness,  "  cack'late  " 
— and  when  they  begin  to  "  cack'late,"  they  begin  to 


204 

keep  an  account  of  expenses — which  is  the  infallible 
premonitory  symptom  of  the  virus  of  Yankeeism 
striking  into  the  bone.  I  don't  want  to  live  among 
no  sich  people.  I  want  to  go  whar  I  kin  build  my 
house  catty-cornered,  lop-sided,  slantingdicular,  bot- 
tom-upwards, any  way  I  please,  and  have  no  correct 
idea  about  nothing,  'cept  politics. 

The  glory  of  the  new  house  is  the  "  big  room," 
up  stairs.  This  spacious  chamber  boasts  four  great 
windows  which  reach  within  six  inches  of  the  floor 
— ventilation  in  perfection !  You  are  in  the  house 
and  out  of  doors  at  the  same  time ;  may  see  every- 
thing, hear  everthing,  and  feel  every  wind  that  blows. 
On  one  side  is  the  garden,  and  beyond  it,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  is  the  railroad ;  which,  seen  in  pro- 
file, looks  like  the  key-board  of  an  interminable  piano- 
forte. This  railroad  is  great  company  for  us  at  Moun- 
tain Yiew.  It  reminds  us  that  we  are  in  the  world 
of  busy  life  and  motion,  although  we  are  nestled  so 
snugly  under  the  locusts  that  you  can  hardly  see  us, 
brave  soldiers,  as  you  rush  to  the  wars.  It  affords 
an  easy  path  to  the  village,  and  brings  us  every  day 
a  squad  of  convalescent  soldiers,  who  walk  out  to  get 
dinner  and  breathe  the  pure  air.  We  are  never  tired 
of  it.  A  locomotive  under  a  full  head  of  steam  is 
always  attractive.  Every  time  a  train  passes,  we  all 
get  up  to  look  at  it,  and,  if  its  speed  is  at  all  rapid, 
Uncle  Jim  seldom  fails  to  exclaim,  "  I  George !  she's 
a  goin'  uv  it." 

Through  the  window  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
big  room,  the  vision  is  led  down  the  sloping  fields  to 


205 

the  "  low-grounds,"  now  groaning  under  a  luscious 
load  of  watermelons,  muskmelons  and  cantelopes,  and 
thence  to  the  river,  whose  lines  of  beauty  are  traced 
by  masses  of  luxuriant  foliage,  so  thickly  do  the  trees 
and  clambering  vines  crowd  to  the  banks  to  drink  the 
life-giving  water,  all  muddy  as  it  is  during  half  the 
year.  Over  the  river  a  hill  mounts  boldly  up,  and 
on  its  top  a  white  house  is  perched,  like  a  castle  on 
the  Rhine.  Beyond  the  hill,  far  in  the  distance,  are 
the  knobs  of  the  mountain.  Almost  at  the  foot  of 
that  mountain,  the  father  of  Uncle  Flatback  used  to 
live — a  Revolutionary  soldier,  seven  years  in  the  line 
— concerning  whom  and  his  hapless  daughter,  Vir- 
ginia, you  may  one  day  hear  more.  The  river  side  of 
the  big  up-stairs  room  I  like  far  better  than  the  rail- 
road side.  The  view  is  more  extensive,  more  varied, 
rural,  sequestered.  The  railroad  suggests  the  busy 
world  and  all  my  cares  away  yonder  in  the  city, 
crowded  now  with  thousands  on  thousands  of  sick  and 
wounded,  and  but  lately  delivered,  thank  God !  from 
myriads  of  besieging  Yankees.  Whereas  the  river,, 
rolling  under  thick-boughed  trees,  brings  thoughts  of 
freedom,  peace,  seclusion,  the  delights  of  bathing  and 
fishing  to  the  mind.  Talking  about  fishing,  there  is 
the  noblest  beech,  the  best  place  for  fishing,  and, 
sometimes,  the  finest  fishing  in  this  little  muddy  river 
that  heart  could  wish.  I  wrote  a  piece  once  about 
that  old  beech,  and  the  fishing  frolics  I  have  enjoyed 
while  reclining  on  its  fantastic  roots,  equal  to  any 
arm-chair,  and  under  its  scanty  shade.  When  my 
collected  works  are  printed,  I  want  somebody  to 


206 

hunt  up  that  piece,  take  out  the  nonsense  and  re- 
publish  it — for  there  are  some  good  things  in  it,  I 
think. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  peaceful  view  only  that  I  like 
the  river-side  of  the  big  room  so  well.  It  is  on  ac- 
count of  the  trees — the  aspens  close  to  the  window, 
and  the  sturdy  oaks  that  tower  above  the  crank-sided 
carriage-house,  just  outside  the  yard.  Oh,  me  !  what 
delight  to  lie  by  the  window  during  the  listless,  mid- 
summer days,  and  look  at  the  aspens,  all  in  a  flurry 
of  delight,  and  watch  the  lazy,  fleecy  clouds  far  up 
in  the  blue  welkin.  And  then  at  night  to  stretch  out 
in  the  wide  bed,  or  on  a  soft  pallet  down  on  the  floor, 
close  by  the  window,  and  look  up  at  the  stars  through 
the  gently  moving  branches,  and  listen  to  the  mur- 
muring and  whispering  of  the  leafy  creatures.  I 
know  not  what  they  say,  but  I  know  they  are  talk- 
ing. They  have  their  secrets — tales  of  the  old,  old 
world,  of  the  "joyous  prime"  of  Eden,  and  that 
dread  time  when  this  planet  was  not  ripe  for  man, 
but  life  was  striving  up  to  him  through  Nature's 
every  manifestation. 

You  can't  teach  me  anything  about  trees.  I'm  ac- 
quainted with  'em ;  have  known  'em  ever  since  I  was 
a  child,  and  used  to  spend  whole  days  with  'em  in 
the  woods.  I  tell  you  they  are  people.  Everybody 
knows  that  some  trees  are  tame  and  others  savage, 
barbarous,  half  civilized,  and  so  on.  Put  a  pine  tree 
in  a  yard,  and  what  does  he  look  like — how  does  he 
feel?  He  looks  out  of  place,  and  he  feels  embar- 
rassed and  mad,  just  as  a  negro  field-hand  would  if 


you  were  to  set  him  down  in  a  parlor,  or  at  a  dinner 
table  in  the  midst  of  white  folks.  Whereas  an  aspen 
or  a  locust  is  perfectly  at  home  in  a  yard,  and  throws 
out  his  arms  affectionately  towards  the  house,  and  tries 
his  best  to  put  a  hand  or  two  in  at  the  window  and 
pat  you  on  the  cheek  with  his  leafy  fingers.  You 
think  trees  have  got  no  soul,  no  mind,  no  heart. 
That's  because  you  have  got  no  soul  yourself,  plague  on 
you !  When  a  little  bird  hops  on  a  twig,  and  begins 
singing  as  if  he  was  singing  for  wages,  the  tree 
thrills  clean  down  to  his  toes  in  the  ground.  So 
when  the  rain  comes  to  fetch  water,  and  the  winds 
from  away  over  the  mountains  and  oceans  come  to 
tell  the  news,  can't  you  see  how  happy  the  trees  are, 
how  they  clap  their  hands  and  jump  up  and  down,  and 
get  bright  in  the  face,  and  actually  laugh  in  the  sun- 
shine? If  you  can't  its  because  the  panes  in  the 
windows  of  your  soul  need  washing.  You  think  be- 
cause trees  can't  walk  they  are  an  inferior  order  of 
beings.  Well,  now,  if  you  think  a  bit,  ain't  you 
too  stuck  to  this  earth  ?  Why  don't  you  step  over 
to  the  next  star,  and  find  out  something  that  a  tree 
don't  know  ? 

Men  have  a  small  opinion  of  trees  because  their 
hearts  are  set  on  money,  stocks,  fame,  glory,  and 
such  trash ;  but  boys  think  differently.  Boys  love 
trees.  They  love  to  play  with  them,  love  to  climb 
them,  because  hugging  is  the  principal  part  of  climb- 
ing, and  not  the  least  portion  of  loving.  And  what's 
the  reason  boys  delight  so  to  ride  saplings?  Young 
things  love  to  play  with  .each  other.  Do  the 


208 

saplings  enjoy  it?  Enjoy  it!  Now,  look  here.  Do 
you  want  to  provoke  me  to  death  ?  Did  you  ever 
ride  a  sapling?  Well,  then  you  have  noticed  that, 
after  you  have  done  riding,  the  sapling  bends  over 
for  days  and  days.  A  man  of  sense  would  tell  you  the 
sapling  continued  to  lean  over  because  the  "  woody 
fibre,"  elasticity,  etc.,  etc.,  and  scientific  so-forth.  I 
know  better.  It's  no  such  a  thing.  The  sapling  re- 
mains in  the  stooping  posture  because  he  thinks  a 
game  of  leap-frog  is  going  on,  and  is  waiting  for  the 
next  boy  to  come  along ;  and  having  a  long  time  to 
live  (provided  he  ain't  cut  down  to  make  a  ridge 
pole  of  a  henhouse,  or  a  roost  for  turkeys),  and  being 
mighty  patient  and  sweet-tempered  withal,  holds  an 
till  the  pain  in  his  back  compels  him  to  rise  up  again. 
Poor  things !  I  have  seen  'em  waiting  and  waiting, 
for  days  and  days  after  the  boys  had  gone  off  and 
forgot  'em.  It  makes  me  right  down  sorry  to  look 
at  'em. 

Let  me  come  back  from  tree-talk  to  the  river 
again — the  muddy  Appomattox — whose  waters  are 
as  ugly  here  as  its  name  is  picturesque.  It  sweeps 
around  the  foot  of  my  Uncle  Flatback's  plantation 
in  a  wide,  irregular  curve,  until  its  lines  of  dense 
foliage  are  lost  to  the  view  from  the  windows  of  the 
room  "up  the  big  stars."  There  is  a  wagon-way 
which  runs  in  a  straight  line  by  the  sweet-potato 
patch  and  the  little  barn  down  to  the  sandy  low- 
grounds,  which,  year  after  year,  bear  those  copious 
crops  of  watermelons,  rnuskmelons  and  cantelopes 
for  which  Mountain  View  is  famous.  Just  on  the 


209 

river  bank  there  is  a  hut  of  pine  poles,  which  might 
be  taken  for  a  henhouse  if  it  were  not  so  far  away 
from  the  mansion  itself.  In  winter  time  you  might 
puzzle  your  brain  for  ever  to  find  the  use  of  this  hut ; 
but  in  summer  the  protecting  lines  of  string,  stretch- 
ing from  end  to  end  of  the  melon  patch,  and  the 
numerous  scare-crows,  made  out  of  Winston's  old 
breeches  and  Polly's  old  petticoats,  compel  you  to 
the  just  inference,  viz. :  that  it  is  the  guardhouse  of 
the  dusky  sentinels  who  watch  over  the  precious  fruit 
which  cumbers  the  ground  hard  by.  'Lijah,  or  'Lijy, 
poor  fellow !  before  he  died  in  the  service  of  his 
country — working  upon  the  fortifications  around 
Richmond — used  to  keep  watch  here ;  but  John  was 
always  Uncle  Flatback's  right-hand  man  in  all  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  melons. 

Of  the  merits  of  the  Mountain  View  melons  I  can 
speak  by  experience,  having  eaten  them  a  thousand 
times,  more  or  less.  My  only  regret  is  that  I  can't 
eat  a  thousand  at  a  time.  You  know,  dear  reader, 
that  there  are  certain  occasions — deemed  very  sad  by 
wise  and  elevated  persons  unlike  ourselves — when 
this  mortal  nature  gets  the  better  of  us,  and  the  only 
perfect  happiness  seems  to  be  in  the  unlimited  in- 
dulgence of  our  animal  apetites.  Base,  very  base 
are  we,  when  these  sensual  seasons  overtake  and 
master  us.  But — poor,  pitiful  worms  of  the  dust 
that  we  are — such  seasons  will  arise ;  and  we  have  to 
knock  under  to  them,  just  as  we  do  to  the  periods  of 
frost  and  sunshine.  I  have  known  the  time,  my  vir- 
tuous and  dyspeptic  friend,  when  the  highest  bliss  I 
14 


210 

could  picture  to  myself,  was  a  cloudless  summer  day, 
about  two  years  long,  in  the  which  the  present  des- 
picable wretch  now  writing  these  lines  did  nothing 
but  sit  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  under  the  shade  of  a 
mighty  tree,  and  eat  the  ice-cold  core  of  a  vast,  pre- 
posterous and  unbounded  watermelon,  from  soon  in 
the  morning  until  midnight.  Forgive  me,  forgive 
me,  ye  earthly  saints  who  live  not  by  bread  alone, 
and  who  never  have  any  bad  thoughts ;  but  the  fact 
is,  I  do  really  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  would  like  to  eat 
or  drink  some  particular  good  thing,  right  straight 
ahead  for  several  consecutive  centuries,  without  stop- 
ping even  to  take  breath. 

Under  the  locusts  in  the  front  yard  there  is  a  bench 
of  a  convenient  height  to  be  eaten  off  when  a  person 
is  standing  up.  Here  Uncle  Flatback  leads  his 
guests  of  a  summer  evening,  and  drawing  a  great 
pocket-knife,  plunges  it  remorselessly  into  the  de- 
licious entrails  of  his  green-ribbed  victims,  until  a 
dozen  or  so  are  split  wide  open,  and  lie  at  the  mercy 
of  the  mouth-watering  bystanders.  Pitch  in  freely, 
young  men  and  maidens,  but  beware  of  yonder 
grizzly-bearded  priest  of  melons,  whose  sacrificial 
blade  has  opened  this  inviting  expanse  of  vegetable 
meats  for  your  behoof.  His  stern  and  oft-repeated 
"take  keer  uv  the  seed,"  is  meant  in  earnest,  I  as- 
sure you.  Incur  not  the  wrath  of  the  hospitable 
ancient,  whatever  you  do ;  but  eat  till  you  can  eat  no 
more,  and  never  mind  your  fingers  and  mouth,  over 
which  the  sweet  juice  is  rapidly  crystallizing  into 
sticky  watermelon  candy,  for  'Liza — or  Link,  as  the 


211 

seed-saving  ancient  calls  her — will  be  here  presently 
with  a  bowl  full  of  fresh  spring  water,  nice  soap  and 
plenty  of  towels — the  people  of  Mountain  View  be- 
ing a  cleanly  race,  and  having  a  madness  for  towels, 
of  which,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance,  there  are 
never  less  than  half  a  million  on  hand  at  a  time. 

Following  the  course  of  the  river,  you  find  below 
the  watermelon  patch  a  number  of  towering  syca- 
mores, rising  out  of  a  tangled  thicket.  In  former 
years  these  trees  used  to  be  the  resort  and  dormitory 
of  that  most  graceful  object  of  Southern  skies — the 
"  tukky-buzzard."  It  is  said  they  were  driven  off  by 
the  cannonading  of  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  two 
hundred  miles  away — a  pretty  story,  truly.  Just 
beyond  this  " roost"  there  is  a  dam,  over  which  the 
muddy  water  falls  as  naturally,  if  not  as  beautifully, 
as  at  Niagara.  This  dam  feeds  Morton's  or  Jackson's 
mill,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  stream ;  and  this 
mill — a  biggish  pile  of  dusky  weatherboarding,  which 
once  had  some  pretentious  to  the  proud  name  of 
Merchants'  mills,  and  the  gable  of  which  may  be 
seen  peeping  above  the  luxurious  foliage  that  lines 
the  banks  of  the  river,  is  one  of  the  prettiest  and 
most  pleasing  sights  at  Mountain  View.  For  I  am 
of  Macdon aid's  opinion,  that  true  happiness  con- 
sists in  living  in  the  country  and  owning  a  little  mill. 
Apart  from  the  beauty  of  the  big  wheel  in  motion, 
there  is  a  satisfaction  in  taking  toll  of  your  neighbor, 
a  charm  in  the  racket  and  the  dropping  corns  of  the 
hopper,  and  a  sense  of  company  in  the  continual  re- 
currence of  a"  nigger  boy,  perched  on  top  of  a  meal- 


212 

bag,  far  back  upon  the  haunches  of  a  sober-sided  old 
family  mare.  Mills  suggest  peace,  home  and  plenty ; 
and  then  I  think  the  apparition  of  an  honest,  chunky, 
well-bred,  respectful,  and  not  too  self-important  negro 
miller,  all  covered  with  meal,  at  the  door  of  the  mill,, 
is  one  of  the  finest  sights  in  the  world,  next  to  a 
country  blacksmith's  shop  in  the  night  time.  Yan- 
kees and  English  can  write  poems  about  their  mills- 
and  smithies ;  why  can't  we  of  the  South  ?  I'll  tell 
you  ;  it's  because  we  are  too  wretchedly  lazy.  Plague 
take  it !  if  I  had  the  leisure  and  the  mill,  or  the  black- 
smith shop,  I  wouldn't  ask  anybody  any  odds,  but 
write  the  poem  myself.  And  I  bet  you  what  you 
dare,  it  would  be  a  good  one,  and,  what  is  more  to 
the  purpose,  it  would  be  Southern — so  Southern  that 
there  would  be  no  mistaking  it.  A  Yankee  would 
throw  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes  on  reading  it.  Con- 
soun  our  Southern  poets !  they  sing  about  everything 
except  the  things  we  common  people  most  care 
about — the  scenes  and  sounds  of  home,  far  in  the 
depths  of  the  uncontaminated  country,  where  the 
little  that  is  yet  unpolluted  by  Yankee  ideas  and  cus- 
toms still  remains.  Our  Southern  poets  all  want  to 
be  like  Shakspeare,  who  was  a  universal  sort  of  all 
out  o'  doors  and  all  over  creation  of  a  fellow — a  man 
of  no  time  and  no  country,  but  for  all  time  and  all 
countries — and  in  aiming  to  be  Shakspeare,  they 
succeed  in  being  nobody  at  all.  If  they  would  quit 
straining  at  the  heroic  and  the  historical,  kick  Tenny- 
son and  all  other  models  into  the  middle  of  next 
week,  or  elsewhere,  and  if  they  would  content  them- 


213 

selves  with  the  homely,  and  come  right  down  to  the 
soil  that  gave  them  birth,  they  might  do  something. 
My  judgment,  which  may  be  very  valuable,  for  aught 
I  know,  is,  that  when  a  man  thinks  the  afflatus  is  in 
him,  his  first  business  is  to  let  books  rigorously  alone ; 
his  next,  second,  last  and  only  business  is,  to  go 
straight  to  mother  nature,  get  in  her  lap,  look  deeply 
in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  listen  finely  to  her  voice 
(whispering  to  him  alone),  and  then  tell  what  he  has 
seen  and  heard  as  simply  and  as  musically  as  he  can. 
Heretofore  Southern  poets  have  coveted  the  appro- 
bation of  scurvy  Yankee  newspapers,  and  followed 
Yankee  models,  oh,  shame !  in  order  to  gain  it.  One 
-of  the  compensations  of  this  frightful  war,  is  the 
deliverance  of  our  literature  from  this  bondage,  and 
the  birth  of  a  school  of  poets  truly  southern.  Al- 
ready Hayne,  Thompson  (J.  R.),  Timrod,  and  Ran- 
dall, have  given  us  heroic  songs,  wrhich  belong  to  us 
and  to  us  alone — born  as  they  are  of  the  inspiration 
bequeathed  by  martyred  patriots — legacy  priceless 
and  immortal — and  copied  after  no  models.  Better 
is  yet  to  come,  when  time  shall  have  hallowed  and 
glorified  the  men  and  deeds  of  these  fateful  days. 
Who  will  sing  Stonewall  Jackson's  elegy  ? 

On  the  road  from  the  mill — here,  since  this  piece 
is  to  be  as  rambling  and  parenthetical  as  any  Sterne 
ever  wrote — let  me  stop  a  bit.  The  little  one-story- 
and-a-half  dwelling  house  near  the  mill  would  make 
an  exquisite  pencil  sketch  or  painting  in  water  colors 
or  in  oil;  it  is  one  of  myriads  in  Virginia.  Porte 
Crayon  had  an  eye  for  the  grand  and  the  comic,  also 


214 

a  little  imagination.  He  did  partial  justice  to  her 
mountain  scenery,  to  the  Dismal  Swamp,  the  indi- 
genous beings  of  the  rural  districts  and  the  Virginia 
nigger  in  his  manifold  variety,  from  the  conceited 
carriage-driver  to  the  fat  cook  and  the  little  black 
boy  blowing  a  "  blarther ;"  but  he  had  no  eye  for  the 
beauties  of  Virginia  homes.  Is  it  a  marvel  he  de- 
serted to  the  Yankees  ?  Whoso  will,  let  him  partake 
freely  of  the  moral  conveyed  in  this  digression. 

On  the  road  from  the  mill  to  Uncle  Flatback's 
there  is  a  beautifully  secluded  and  delightful  bridge. 
Big  trees,  dressed  with  wild,  luxuriant  vines,  bend 
over  and  frame  it  in  from  the  work-day,  cornfield 
world  on  either  hand.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  cross  this  bridge  except  on  foot,  and  its  use 
as  a  crossing  for  vehicles  has  long  since  been  aban- 
doned. The  neighbors  who  used  to  patronize  the 
mill  abuse  Patrick  Jackson,  the  mill-owner,  for  not 
repairing  the  bridge,  and  Patrick  Jackson,  in  turn, 
abuses  the  neighbors  for  not  furnishing  the  timber. 
Both  parties,  I  think,  deserve  leather  medals  for 
being  gloriously  lazy  Virginians,  willing  rather  to 
let  things  rot,  and  break  the  legs  of  horses  and  the 
necks  of  niggers,  than  to  get  into  a  Yankee  stew  and 
a  New  England  fease  the  moment  anything  needs 
mending,  and  to  work  madly  over  every  crack  and 
fissure,  as  if  godliness  consisted  in  patching,  and  the 
world  would  be  blotted  out  of  existence  the  moment 
it  ceased  to  smell  of  newly  sawed  pine  and  fresh 
varnish.  For  my  part,  I  hope  the  bridge  never  will 
be  mended,  but  stay  just  as  it  is  until  the  humbler- 


215 

bees — humble-bees  ?  not  any,  I  thank  you — I  speak 
Virginian,  not  the  lingo  of  Bosting,  or  even  of  Ing- 
ling,  (perhaps  you'd  like  for  me  to  say  England.  I 
be  blamed  if  I  do,) — until  the  bumbler-bees,  and 
other  borers,  reduce  it  to  wood-dust  and  scatter  it 
atom  by  atom  into  the  stream.  As  long  as  the  bridge 
is  in  its  present  break-neck  condition,  Uncle  Flat- 
back's  plantation  will  not  be  a  thoroughfare  for 
everybody  who  wants  to  take  a  short  cut  from  the 
plank  road  to  the  old  stage  road  to  Richmond.  I 
hate  a  place  that  is  continually  enlivened  and  afflicted 
by  people  traveling  vaguely  about  in  shackly  buggies 
that  can  run  along  a  road  no  broader  than  a  hog 
path.  There  is  no  peace,  no  sense  of  ownership  in 
such  a  place  as  that.  You  might  as  well  have  no 
place  at  all.  The  hands  in  the  field  are  always  stop- 
ping to  look  at  these  wandering  vehicles,  the  axles 
of  which  invariably  creak  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
half  a  mile  off.  Like  as  not  they'll  break  down  right 
at  your  door,  and  the  people  will  be  sure  to  stay  all 
night,  and  the  unclean  nosed  child  in  the  buggy 
(there  is  always  one  of  them)  will  give  your  children 
the  itch  or  the  measles,  and  the  black  girl  who  rides 
behind  the  buggy  wil.1  make  herself  generally  ob- 
noxious by  fascinating  the  boy  that  brings  wood  into 
the  house.  Even  if  the  fugitive  buggy  doirt  break 
down,  from  the  moment  it  heaves  in  sight,  everybody 
in  the  house,  the  kitchen  and  the  quarters,  is  in  a 
fever  of  uncertainty  as  to  whose  buggy  it  is ;  and  as 
it  comes  up  slowly,  a  half  hour  or  more  is  wasted  in 
conflicting  and  vain  conjectures,  until  it  passes  by — 


216 

the  man,  woman,  child,  servant  and  horse  all  staring 
stupidly  at  you  and  all  your  folks,  who  are  staring 
stupidly  at  them ;  and  when  the  plaguy  thing  is  gone 
and  quiet  is  once  more  restored,  its  horrid  creaking 
leaves  you  with  a  toothache  and  a  crick  in  the  neck, 
and  starts  old  Ring,  who  ought  to  have  been  dead 
long  ago,  to  howling,  until  you  are  mad  enough  to 
beat  his  brains  out  with  the  fishing-pole  which  you 
have  been  peacefully  trimming.  I  am  not  lacking 
in  the  natural  instinct  of  hospitality,  but,  Virginian 
as  I  am,  if  I  had  a  place,  by  jingo !  there  should  not 
be  a  gate  in  it — nothing  but  drawbars  twenty  poles 
high,  and  each  pole  fastened  with  ten  thousand  knots 
of  the  strongest,  biggest,  stiffest,  roughest  and  hand- 
tearingest  grape-vine  I  could  find.  The  labyrinth 
of  Crete  would  be  a  "  main,  plain  road  "  compared  to 
my  place,  and  the  labors  of  Sisyphus  wouldn't  be  a 
circumstance  to  the  labor  of  getting  through  it.  As 
for  bridges,  I  wouldn't  have  one,  unless  it  was  two 
hundred  years  old  and  half  gone  when  it  was  first 
built.  A  log,  a  round,  slippery  log,  with  the  bark 
off,  fastened  high  up  in  the  crotch  of  a  tall  tree  on 
this  side,  and  stuck  in  the  crotch  of  a  still  taller  tree 
on  the  other  side  of  the  creek,  is  a  good  enough 
bridge  for  me.  If  people  want  to  see  me,  let  'em 
swim  like  Leander,  or  wade  like  Cousin  Sally  Dillard. 
Maybe  I'll  have  a  "  cunner"  for  them  I  like  best,  but 
further  than  that  I  will  not  go — no,  I  will  not — you 
needn't  ask  me. 

Many  pleasant  evening  strolls  I  have  had  to  the 
old  bridge,  all  by  myself,  leaning  over  the  bewhittled 


21.7 

and  name-graven  railing,  thinking  thoughts  and 
dreaming  dreams  till  the  evening  star  arose  and  the 
whippoorwill  began  his  chant.  But  the  water  under 
the  bridge  is  not  clear  as  crystal,  swift  as  an  arrow, 
and  sparkling  as  a  stream  of  diamonds — fit  abode  for 
Naiads  and  Undines — but  muddy  as  the  telegraphic 
dispatches  from  Mississippi  before  the  fall  of  Yicks- 
burg,  slow  as  an  army  wagon  or  a  conscript  making 
a  charge,  and  full  of  all  manner  of  nasty  and  con- 
founded "  mud-kittens,'-  "  snap'n-turkles,"  and  snake- 
doctors.  Still,  I  love  to  go  there  and  look  by  the 
hour,  not  at  the  plague-taked  water,  but  at  the 
pendant  vines,  the  intricate  emerald  umbrage  cut 
daintily  upon  the  azure  ground  of  the  sky,  the  many 
shaped  clouds,  the  ravishing  dyes  of  sunset,  and 
fancying  what  a  great  fellow  I  might  be  if  I  only 
had  money  enough  to  quit  writing  nonsense  and 
.stick  resolutely  to  poetry  and  romance. 

As  you  go  from  George  Daniel's — I  think  I'd 
better  write  it  Dannill's,  that's  the  way  Virginians 
pronounce  the  name — as  you  go  from  George  Dan- 
nill's land  to  Unc'  Jim's,  the  road  runs  close  to  the 
river  bank,  and  through  a  dense  growth  of  bushes, 
which,  in  former  years,  when  the  carriage  could  go 
on  the  bridge,  and  I  used  to  go  with  Aunt  Mary  and 
Cousin  Betsy  to  church,  gave  us  no  end  of  trouble ; 
for  if  we  dodged  from  one  side  of  the  carriage  to  the 
other,  to  keep  the  intruding  branches  from  scratch- 
ing our  eyes  out,  we  were  sure  to  encounter  a  set  of 
branches  still  longer  and  more  insolent,  besides  skin- 
ning our  elbows — no  small  calamity  to  a  body  with 


218 

as  plump,  fine  arms  as  Betsy's — against  the  brass 
buttons  by  which  the  carriage  curtains  were  fastened. 
Unc'  Jim  never  had  the  address  and  hardihood  to 
clear  up  this  thicket,  or  to  prune  the  pugnacious 
branches.  So,  Sunday  after  Sunday  we  had  to  run 
the  gauntlet  and  display  our  agility  in  dodging 
around  a  space  not  much  larger  than  the  inside  of  a 
coffee-pot — for  the  carriage  was  a  Yankee  carriage, 
as  scrimp,  meagre  and  rickety  as  the  cheap  and 
wretched  souls  that  made  it.  Woodson,  the  carriage- 
driver,  when  struggling  through  this  bushy  maze, 
used  to  imitate  the  most  difficult  feats  of  the  ancient 
gymnast  or  modern  India-rubber-man  of  the  circus, 
by  tying  himself  into  a  double-bow-knot,  and  placing 
the  top  of  his  head  on  the  bottom  of  the  foot-board, 
so  that  only  the  small  of  his  back  and  the  tips  of  his 
knee-pans  were  visible.  Since  the  "  bustid "  condi- 
tion of  the  bridge  has  made  church-going  by  the 
Jackson's  mill  route  impossible,  the  thicket  has  been 
left  to  its  own  wild  will,  and  has  become  as  impene- 
trable as  the  abattis  which  Hooker  vainly  erected  in 
the  Wilderness.  Well,  I  am  not  sorry.  Trees,  as  I 
said  before,  are  living  souls ;  I  love  to  see  'em  grow, 
and  it  hurts  me  to  see  them  destroyed  merely  to 
make  room  for  people  to  pass.  Why,  I  would  like 
to  know,  can't  we  treat  them  as  politely  as  we  do 
other  gentlemen  of  high  standing?  One  vacation 
old  Hart  cut  down  a  dead  apple  tree  that  grew  by 
the  fence  which  enclosed  the  play-ground  at  Edge- 
hill.  I  saw  the  gap  the  moment  I  got  back,  and 
felt  as  if  one  of  the  boys  had  died.  When  Uncle 


119 

Jim  cut  down  the  pines  between  the  house  and  Israel 
Hill  simply  to  get  a  better  look  at  the  train  as  it 
passed,  it  seemed  to  me  as  cruel  and  unwise,  as  if  a 
tyrant  had  destroyed  a  fine  army  merely  to  get  a 
view  of  a  fast  woman.  I  detest  clearings  and  tree- 
murderers  of  all  sorts.  The  sight  of  a  new  ground 
makes  me  as  mad  as  the  devil.  To  kill  a  forest  in 
order  to  raise  a  weed — tobacco — is  to  me  the  very 
climax  of  crime  and  folly.  The  depraved  and  irra- 
tional salivary  glands  of  the  human  race  have  a 
vast  deal  of  sin  to  answer  for.  They  have  played 
Mother  Earth  the  same  vile  trick  Lot's  sons  played 
on  him;  they  have  uncovered  her  nakedness;  nay, 
worse,  they  have  heaped  hickory  ashes  and  many 
chunks  of  burnt  u  bresh"  upon  her  fair  bosom,  all 
for  the  sake  of  getting  something  bitter  and  dirty 
and  dauby  to  make  'em  spit,  and  keep  on  spitting 
the  livelong  day.  Isn't  it  horrible  ? 

Not  a  word — none  of  your  sneers,  gibes,  retorts 
and  ;< physician  heal  thyself."  I  do  smoke;  nay,  to 
my  shame  be  it  admitted,  I  even  chaw  a  little.  I 
own  I  am  as  bad  as  any  of  you.  But  that  does'nt 
make  tobacco  any  cleaner  or  the  clearing  of  new 
grounds  less  murderous.  You  see  you  can't  make 
anything  out  of  me  by  your  rejoinders  and  argu- 
menta  ad  hominem.  Cease,  therefore,  and  throw 
that  villainous  plug  in  your  coat-tail  pocket  away, 
and  don't  clap  the  crumbs  into  your  mouth  in  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness. 

The  fence  that  divides  Dannill's  land  from  Flat- 
back's  had  a  gate  just  beyond  the  thicket  before 


1220  MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION. 

mentioned,  and  the  staples — that's  the  name,  I  be- 
lieve— of  that  gate,  are  driven  savagely  into  the 
trunk  of  a  young  and  very  pretty  beech  tree.  Who 
was  the  unfeeling  wretch  that  did  this  act  of  vandal- 
ism? Would  that  I  had  him  by  the  Adam's  apple 
or  the  scruff  of  the  neck.  Bad  enough  to  treat  an 
innocent  lad  of  a  tree  in  this  way,  but  to  make  a  gate- 
post of  a  historical  tree  is  outrageous.  On  the 
bark  of  this  beautiful  beech  tree  the  letters  J.  R.  are 
cut,  and  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke  is  said  to  have 
cut  them  with  his  own  hand.  The  tradition  may  be 
apocryphal,  but  yonder  is  "  Bizarre,"  scarcely  half  a 
mile  away,  where  Randolph  lived  for  some  years 
after  his  brother  Richard's  death — by-the-way,  you 
know  that  Dick  was  a  greater  man  than  Jack  Ran- 
dolph, just  as  Bobus  was  greater  than  Sidney  Smith 
— the  same  may  be  said  of  the  almost  unknown 
brothers  of  many  eminent  men — and  our  maltreated 
beech  is  on  the  road  to  "  Sandy  Ford,"  the  mansion  of 
the  Dillons,  famous  in  the  old  times  for  its  hospi- 
tality, and  a  favorite  resort  of  Randolph's.  It  is  not 
at  all  impossible  that,  coming  home  from  Dillon's, 
flown  with,  not  insolence,  but  fried,  chicken  and 
wine,  and  ruminating  sadly  on  the  certainty  of  his 
leaving  no  posterity  behind  him,  he  may  have  stop- 
ped his  horse,  and  left  his  name  to  be  perpetuated  by 
this  lusty  young  tree,  which  (albeit  the  gloomy  en- 
graver has  been  mouldering  in  his  grave  for  many 
long  years),  seems  hardly  to  have  attained  its  adolo- 
scence. 

After  you  leave  Randolph's  tree,  there  is  nothing  of 


221 

interest  on  the  road  to  old  Flatback's — unless  it  be 
a  muddy  horse-pond  under  a  little  sycamore — until 
you  come  to  the  spring.  It  is  a  splendid  spring,  ex- 
cept in  very  wet  weather,  when  the  back-water  of 
the  Appomattox  chokes  it  up,  and  it  tastes  of  its  own 
moss.  It  is  shaded  by  oaks  and  elms — magnificent 
old  fellows,  that  would  set  Virgil  crazy  were  he  to 
see  them,  and  throw  him  into  a  bucolic  equal  to 
an  attack  of  Asiatic  cholera.  Tityrus  never  recubed 
under  anything  comparable  to  them.  It  is  a  fine 
thing  of  a  hot  summer  day  to  sit  under  these  noble 
trees,  recline  your  head  against  their  mighty  boles, 
and  muse  sweetly  for  a  few  minutes,  until  a  caravan 
of  gigantic  black  or  red  pismires  begin  a  pilgrimage 
up  your  back  bone — for  the  Virginia  ant,  as  you  are 
well  aware,  has  a  choice  knack  of  getting  under  the 
"  body-linen,"  as  old  folks  call  it,  which  sets  wrist- 
bands and  collar  buttons  at  defiance. 

Hard  by  this  spring  there  are  some  utilitarian 
fixtures  which  disclose  the  indifference  of  the  true 
Virginian  to  aesthetics,  and  knock  the  sense  of  the  beau- 
tiful on  the  head  very  effectually.  They  are  fixtures 
used  at  hog-killing  time.  There  are  the  rocks  that 
are  heated  to  put  in  the  water  that  scalds  their  hair 
off.  There  is  the  pole  on  which  the  hogs  are  hung 
by  the  hind  legs  to  be  disemboweled.  There  they 
are,  close  to  the  spring  of  sweet  water  and  right 
under  that  elm,  the  equal  of  which  is  not  in  all  Vir- 
ginia. You  are  a  man  of  imagination,  of  course,  and 
whenever  you  look  at  that  pole,  you  see  the  naked 
porcine  corpses  hanging  down,  with  a  great  gash  in 


222          MY  DNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION. 

front,  and  a  corn-cob  in  the  open  bloody  mouth  of 
each  of  them ;  and  every  time  you  look  at  these 
rocks,  you  smell  burnt  hair  and  feel  bristles,  and  re- 
member, as  if  it  were  yesterday,  the  first  night  you 
ever  saw  the  plantation  Crispin  making  low-quarter 
stitch-downs,  and  how  funny  it  was  to  see  a  man  sew- 
ing with  two  threads  at  the  same  time. 

There  are  some  jugs  of  milk  of  both  kinds — sweet 
milk  and  butter-milk — in  the  spring  house,  and  Ada 
will  be  here  presently  to  carry  them  to  the  house, 
for  Aunt  Mary  is  going  to  give  us  green  apple  tart 
to-day;  but  the  place  reminds  us  of  the  hogs,  so  let's 
get  away  to  the  thicket  of  plum  and  thorn  bushes, 
just  over  the  grassy  knoll  above  us.  Double  up 
your  coat  for  a  pillow  and  lie  down  awhile,  and  I'll 
tell  you  something.  You  see  that  old  tobacco  house 
yonder?  You  do.  Well,  do  you  know  that  in  all 
the  Southern  novels  and  poems  that  I  ever  read  or 
heard  of,  there  is  not  a  line  about  tilted  and  sway- 
back  old  tobacco  houses  or  about  plum  bushes  or 
thorn  bushes?  And  do  you  know  that  I  think  there 
is  a  deal  of  romance  and  of  poetry  in  these  things  ? 
Why,  the  thorn  bush  is  the  home  of  the  nightingale — 
did  you  know  that  ?  No,  you  know  nothing  and  care 
less  about  these  very  romantic  things !  I  knew  you 
didn't.  You  are  Virginian,  and,  since  childhood, 
you  have  ceased  to  care  about  plums — wild  plums, 
I  mean.  You  say  the  skin  is  bitter  and  the  things 
get  squashy  as  soon  as  they  are  ripe.  You  think 
thorn  bushes  were  made  especially  to  furnish  negroes 
with  vegetable  buttons  to  fasten  "galluses"  by,  and 


223 

as  for  old  tobacco  houses,  you  are  too  busy  making 
new  ones  to  think  about  them  at  all.  Very  well,  sir, 
if  these  are  your  prosaic  views,  you  can  just  get  up 
from  under  Uncle  Flatback's  pretty  plum  bushes  and 
go  with  me  to  dinner,  and  eat  butter-beans  until  you 
burst — fit  end  for  you,  you  miserable  materialist. 

As  we  go  by  the  kitchen  and  the  quarters,  I  shall 
not  allow  you  to  talk  with  Malindy,  who  is  cooking 
for  the  hands,  or  with  Polly — for  dinner  is  late — or 
with  Locky,  who  is  ironing  like  mad — she  is  a  real 
steam  engine,  Locky  is — you  shall  interrupt  nobody, 
but  go  straight  along  into  the  yard  and  do  your  best 
to  appease  the  ire  of  Uncle  Flatback,  who  threatens 
momentarily  to  "skin  the  head"  of  Liza  and  Gary 
Ann,  if  they  don't  "  hurry  up  that  mush."  As  for 
me,  I  will  go  into  the  garden. 

No,  I  am  not  going  to  read  you  a  long  rigmarole 
about  the  garden — not  if  I  can  help  it — although,  on 
the  principle  of  praising  the  bridge,  I  ought  to  do 
so ;  for  many  and  many  a  good  meal  this  garden  has 
furnished  me.  It  is  an  unpretentious  garden;  has 
no  palings,  you  see ;  only  a  rail  fence.  The  reason 
of  this  is  this — Uncle  Flatback  rents  the  place,  and 
won't  go  to  any  unnecessary  expense  about  it.  If 
he  owned  it,  he  would  fix  up  things  nicely  enough ; 
but,  like  every  true  Virginian,  he  has  been  on  the 
eve  of  moving  to  Alabama,  or  Mississippi,  or  Texas, 
ever  since  he  first  came  here — twenty  years  ago. 
Butter-beans,  snaps,  green  peas,  beets,  cabbage  and 
a  few  flowers,  make  up  the  contents  of  the  garden ; 
other  vegetables,  such  as  tomatoes,  onions,  black-eye 


224:  MY  TINGLE  FLATBACK's  PLANTATION. 

peas,  cymlings  and  "rosin"  ears,  being  grown  here- 
and  there,  first  in  this  and  then  in  that  patch,  in 
various  parts  of  the  plantation — a  curious  and  pecu- 
liar feature  of  old-fashioned  Virginian  management. 
About  gardens  and  orchards — by  the  way,  there  is 
no  orchard  at  Mountain  Yiew ;  because,  in  the  first 
place,  Uncle  Flatback  is  afraid  his  apples  and  peaches 
might  be  made  into  liquor  of  some  sort,  and  in  the 
second  place,  he  is  continually  going  to  go  to  Texas 
or  elsewhere — about  gardens,  orchards,  clover  and 
wheat  fields,  there  is  something  to  be  said  which  1 
have  never  yet  heard  said,  namely:  they  are  (to  me 
at  least)  proofs  of  the  existence,  wisdom  and  good- 
ness of  Deity,  better  and  more  convincing  than 
Paley's  watch,  or  any  other  argument  from  design 
ever  excogitated  by  the  philosophers.  Just  think 
how  ready  to  the  hand  all  fruits,  vegetables  and 
grains  grow.  Suppose  you  had  to  plant  a  ladder 
against  the  pole  every  time  you  wanted  to  get  a  dish 
of  snaps,  or  to  send  a  man  up  in  a  balloon  to  get 
your  apples,  or  to  cut  through  trees  two  feet  thick, 
in  order  to  harvest  a  crop  of  corn,  or  to  sink  a  shaft 
whenever  you.  had  sweet  potatoes  for  dinner.  What 
a  hard  old  world  to  live  in  this  would  be,  if  a  man 
had  to  blast  out  his  turnips,  or  make  use  of  a  patent 
Yankee  stump-puller  to  get  at  each  separate  head  of 
clover,  or  to  worry  his  asparagus  out  of  the  earth 
with  the  aid  of  a  jack-screw!  Then  how  easy  it  is 
to  shell  peas  and  peel  peaches ;  why,  you  can  mash 
soft  peaches  with  your  mouth,  without  peeling  them 
at  all.  Think  what  intolerable  botheration  it  would 


225 

be  to  crack  open  watermelons  with  a  sledge-hammer,, 
or  to  saw  through  pea-hulls  as  you  do  cocoanuts. 
Pursue  the  idea,  my  friend,  and  the  next  time  you 
see  a  curcumber,  or  a  punkin,  or  cymling  lying  in- 
vitingly on  the  ground,  as  much  as  to  say  "  here  I  am, 
ready  for  you,"  thank  the  Lord  for  all  his  goodness. 

The  garden  looks  toward  the  railroad,  and  on  both 
sides  of  the  railroad  you  can  see  a  number  of  negro 
cabins,  which  you  take  to  be  Uncle  Flatback's  quar- 
ters. No  such  thing.  They  are  relics  of  a  grand 
experiment  at  emancipation  made  some  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago,  by  Dick  Eandolph.  Like  most  of  the  men 
of  his  day,  Dick  thought  slavery  a  great  evil,  and  at 
his  death  manumitted  his  negroes,  gave  them  plenty 
of  tolerably  fertile,  well-timbered  and  well  watered 
land,  parcelled  it  off  into  small  farms,  gave  them 
stock,  farm  implements,  etc.  The  negroes  looked 
upon  their  landed  estate  as  new  Canaan,  and  called 
it  "Israel  Hill,"  by  which  name  it  goes  to  this  day. 
They  had  the  advantage  of  years  of  slavery,  which 
civilized  and  christianized  them ;  habituated  them  to 
labor  and  taught  them  the  mode  of  raising  crops. 
They  had  moreover  the  advice  and  assistance  of 
white  neighbors,  all  of  whom,  at  first,  regarded  the 
scheme  with  scarcely  less  favor  than  Randolph  him- 
self, and  were  disposed  to  aid  the  negroes  in  any 
and  every  way  possible.  The  experiment  was  fairly 
made.  Its  failure  was  signal. 

In  this  year  of  grace,  1862,  the  population  of  Is- 
rael Hill  is  scarcely  so  great  as  it  was  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago,  when  the  inhabitants  entered  the  new 
15 


226 

Canaan.  Had  they  remained  slaves,  their  numbers 
would'  have  been  quadrupled.  As  it  is,  they  will 
doubtless  die  out  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  and  dis- 
appear, as  they  have  done  in  Gerrit  Smith's  and  so 
many  other  Yankee  experiments  at  colonizing  free 
negroes.  One  or  two  of  the  Israel  Hill  families  ex- 
hibit in  their  abodes  and  crops  some  capacity  for  self- 
improvement  ;  the  rest  are  thriftless,  to  say  the  least. 
Men  and  women  alike  earn  a  precarious  subsistence, 
laying  up  nothing  and  spending  much  of  their  earn- 
ings in  drink.  One  of  their  number,  the  patriarch 
of  the  Hill,  old  Uncle  Sam  White,  now  considerably 
more  than  one  hundred  years  of  age,  is  so  remark- 
able that  a  bare  outline  of  his  character  would  re- 
quire a  separate  article.  A  more  honest,  upright 
man ;  a  more  truly  pious  and  devoted  Christian,  can- 
not be  found  in  this  whole  Confederacy.  A  cheer- 
ful old  man,  his  laugh,  as  he  w^alks  along  the  rail- 
road and  stops  to  speak  with  his  acquaintances,  may 
be  heard  for  half  a  mile.  He  is,  withal,  a  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  full  of  the  gracious  hospitality 
with  which  he  was  familiar  half  a  century  ago,  in 
the  house  of  his  aristocratic  master ;  and,  previous  to 
the  war,  while  wine  was  yet  attainable,  never  failed 
to  set  his  decanter  out  when  you  entered  his  humble 
cabin.  No  man,  white  or  black,  is  more  respected 
in  his  neighborhood  than  this  genial,  honest,  Godly- 
minded  old  man ;  and  when  he  goes  to  his  long  home, 
as  he  must  soon  do,  there  will  be  more  regret  for 
his  loss  among  the  whites  than  among  the  people  of 
his  own  color. 


227 

Let  me  now  come  back,  if  I  possibly  can,  to  Moun- 
tain Yiew,  and  close  this  discursive  and  tiresome 
article  with  a  brief  account  of  old  Flatback  himself. 
He  is  the  son  of  a  lieutenant  of  the  American  Re- 
volution, who  entered  the  ranks  as  a  private,  and 
fought  through  the  war,  and  bore  upon  his  person 
the  mark  of  an  honorable  wound.  This  son  of  his 
served  in  the  war  of  '12,  as  a  private  in  the  Virginia 
line,  marched  from  the  Yalley  to  Ellicott's  Mill,  but 
was  never  in  any  engagement.  True  to  their  parent- 
age, his  sons  have  played  a  manly  part  in  the  great 
struggle  against  the  North.  "When  the  war  broke 
out,  one  of  them  was  in  Texas.  He  hurried  home, 
joined  Garnett's  command,  and,  by  the  accidental 
discharge  of  a  pistol,  fell  at  Rich  Mountain,  before 
the  disastrous  battle  at  that  place  occurred.  The 
other  has  been  in  the  war  from  the  beginning,  and, 
if  he  be  alive,  is  still  a  private  in  Stuart's  cavalry. 
I  am  told  that  the  Prince  Edward  troop,  raised  by 
the  gifted  and  ill-fated  Thornton,  contains  no  better 
soldier  and  no  greater  favorite,  than  William  Flat- 
T^ack. 

With  all  his  eccentricities  of  dress  and  behavior, 
old  Governor  Flatback — he  is  called  governor  in 
compliment  to  his  real  or  fancied  authority  over 
his  nearest  neighbors,  the  sable  residents  of  Israel 
Hill — is  greatly  liked  and  respected.  The  young 
men,  and  the  old  as  well,  of  the  neighboring  village, 
are  never  tired  of  joking  him  about  his  temperance 
hobby,  his  belief  in  the  medicinal  virtues  of  white- 
oak  bark,  and  many  other  odd  notions.  He  takes  a 


228 

joke  generally  in  good  part,  and  is  not  unskilful  in 
returning  the  rough  compliments  of  his  assailants, 
but  is  at  times  quite  hot-tempered  and  excitable — 
which  makes  the  fun  of  teasing  him  all  the  more 
pleasant  to  his  persecutors. 

Besides  being  a  great  temperance  and  white-oak 
bark  man,  he  is  a  great  raiser  of  watermelons  and 
cornfield  peas.  It  was  at  his  house  that  I  was  first 
made  acquainted  with  the  superlative  virtues  of  that 
peculiar  variety  of  the  cornfield  pea  known  as  the 
"  Grey  Crowder ;"  and  as  for  his  melons,  their  fame 
has  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth — with  slight 
limitations.  In  addition  to  these  claims  to  greatness, 
he  was,  in  his  youth,  a  mighty  fox-hunter,  owned  the 
best  pack  of  hounds  in  the  country,  and  bred  and 
trained  a  series  of  the  most  remarkable  dogs,  all 
named  "  Redcoat,"  that  ever  lived.  Le  Roi  est 
mort ;  vive  le  Roi.  The  dog  died,  but  Redcoat  sur- 
vived. When  the  first  Redcoat  expired  his  son  fell 
heir  to  the  title,  and  so  on  for  I  know  not  how  many 
years.  In  the  same  way  there  was  a  succession  of 
terriers  named  Bob,  the  property  of  the  Governor's 
second  son,  James,  who  died,  as  before  stated,  at 
Rich  Mountain.  The  last  Bob,  a  sober-sided,  gen- 
tlemanly dog,  who  travelled  with  his  master  to  Kan- 
sas and  back,  may  be  seen  to  this  day  at  Mountain 
View,  a  mournful  reminder  of  the  generous  hearted 
young  man  who  loved  him  so  fondly,  for  whose  sake 
he  is  cherished  and  petted  to  the  serious  detriment 
of  his  health — for  over-feeding  has  produced  a  cu- 
taneous disease  that  worries  him  incessantly,  and  has 


MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK  6  PLANTATION. 

made  him  gnaw  nearly  all  the  hair  off  his  hind 
quarters.  To  tell  the  wonders  performed  by  the 
Redcoat  lineage  would  require  a  volume.  If  my 
Uncle  Flatback's  fond  memory  may  be  trusted,  no 
such  dogs  ever  lived  before,  or  ever  will  live  here- 
after. Lightning  on  four  legs  might  rival  their 
speed  ;  anything  less  fleet  they  could  distance  easily. 
Like  the  Lama  of  Peru,  mentioned  by  the  showman, 
who  "  travels  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles  a  minute — 
pigeon  tied  to  his  tail  can't  keep  up  " — they  were 
considered  as  rather  rapid  than  otherwise.  With  re- 
gard to  their  noses,  it  is  enough  to  state  that  they 
did  not  consider  a  trail  cold  until  it  was  six  weeks  old 
and  ploughed  up  at  that.  The  music  of  their  voices 
was  so  exquisite  that  Uncle  Flatback  declares  it  in- 
variably cured  him  of  a  raging  toothache,  or  lockjaw, 
or  hydrophobia,  or  some  such  infirmity  to  which  he 
was  subject  in  his  hunting  days. 

It  remains  only  to  speak  of  Governor  Flatback's 
kindly  heart  and  open-handedness,  and  this  is  no 
easy  task  to  one  who  has  experienced  so  much  of 
both  as  the  writer  of  this  fatiguing  sketch.  To  say 
that  he  is  hospitable,  after  the  good  old-fashion  of 
Virginia  hospitality,  is  to  praise  him  but  lightly,  for 
that  virtue  is  still  common  to  all  who  inhabit  the  Old 
Dominion.  But  the  assertion  so  often  and  so  falsely 
made  of  many  men,  that  no  one  in  want  ever  left  his 
door  empty-handed,  is  literally  true  in  his  case.  His 
family,  like  himself,  seem  never  so  happy  as  when 
they  are  performing  some  friendly  and  generous 
deed.  Nor  is  their's  a  half-way  performance.  I  will 


give  a  single  instance  in  proof  of  the  whole-souled 
way  of  doing  things  in  the  Flatback  household. 

Late  one  evening,  about  five  years  ago,  my  aunt 
came  running  to  the  house  in  great  alarm.  She  had 
been  frightened  by  a  strange-looking  man,  who  was 
approaching  the  house.  This  man  soon  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  sight  to  see,  indeed.  A  mass- 
of  rags  saturated  with  water  enveloped  an  emaciated 
frame,  and  under  an  immense  shock  of  matted  hair 
peered  forth  a  haggard  face,  the  picture  of  death. 
He  was  a  poor  Irishman,  making  his  way  on  foot  to 
a  distant  city.  While  trudging  the  railroad  he  had 
been  taken  ill,  had  applied  at  various  houses  for 
lodging,  and  had  been  refused,  no  doubt  because  of 
his  frightful  appearance.  In  this  condition  he  had 
been  forced  to  lie  out  in  the  rain  for  two  consecutive 
nights  ;  had  dragged  his  way  to  Israel  Hill,  where 
the  negroes  directed  him  to  Governor  Flatback's,  a& 
perhaps  the  only  place  in  which  he  would  be  sure  of 
finding  a  shelter. 

Most  people  would  have  been  satisfied  with  giving 
the  poor  man  supper  and  a  night's  lodging  ;  but  this 
was  not  the  Flatback  way  of  doing  things.  The 
next  morning  he  would  have  pursued  his  journey. 
No ;  the  Flatbacks  would  not  hear  of  it ;  he  must 
stay  until  his  clothes  were  washed,  and  until  he  got 
stronger.  James  Flatback  took  him  in  charge,  gave 
him  a  good  bath,  cut  his  long,  tangled  hair,  rigged 
him  from  the  skin  out  in  a  suit  of  his  own  clothes,  filled 
his  pipe  with  good  tobacco,  and  put  him  in  the  yard 
under  a  tree  to  dry.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  improved. 


231 

He  had  an  honest,  intelligent  face,  and  sat  under  the 
tree  in  a  state  of  high  enjoyment. 

No  sooner  had  he  finished  smoking  than  a  big 
Flatback  watermelon  was  pressed  upon  him,  and  this, 
of  course,  brought  on  an  attack  of  the  ague  and 
fever,  which  had  seized  him  some  days  before.  He 
was  put  to  bed,  treated  with  calomel  and  quinine, 
and  very  soon  got  upon  his  legs  again.  But  the 
chills  had  hardly  subsided  before  a  galloping  con- 
sumption came  on,  and  we  expected  every  day  to  see 
him  die.  It  was  pronounced  by  a  competent  phy- 
sician a  case  of  genuine  pulmonary  phthisis,  and  no 
one  expected  him  to  live.  The  poor  fellow  suffered 
horribly.  As  he  lay  in  the  little  room  adjoining  my 
uncle's  chamber  it  was  fearful,  during  the  paroxysms 
of  expectoration,  to  hear  him  alternately  cursing  and 
praying  for  death  to  release  him  from  his  pangs. 

Brandy  (in  spite  of  old  Flatback's  prejudices  against 
liquor),  cod-liver  oil,  and  whatever  else  was  needed, 
was  supplied  ad  libitum,  and  six.  weeks  after,  to  our 
utter  amazement,  Paddy  rallied  and  gave  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  an  intention  to  live.  He  did  live. 
Skilful  treatment,  good  nursing,  and  generous  living 
cured  him,  and  for  three  years  he  occupied  the  little 
room  next  to  my  uncle's,  working  whenever  it  suited 
him,  and  entertaining  Governor  Flatback,  who  became 
very  fond  of  him,  with  stories  of  his  adventurous 
life,  with  recitations  of  poetry,  and  with  a  never- 
failing  flow  of  Irish  humor.  Soon  after  the  war 
broke  out  he  joined  the  army,  became  one  of  Jack- 
son's "  foot  cavalry,"  was  in  the  great  campaign  of 


232  MY  UNCLE  FLATBACK'S  PLANTATION. 

the  Valley,  from  McDowell  to  Fort  Republic,  got 
wounded  in  the  battles  before  Richmond,  visited 
Mountain  View  during  his  convalescence,  received  a 
hearty  welcome,  and  returned  to  his  command,  where 
he  is  to  this  day,  for  aught  I  know. 

Such  are  the  Flatbacks.  If  they  had  not  over- 
whelmed me  time  and  again  with  kindness ;  if  the 
patience  of  people  who  read  were  inexhaustible,  and 
if  paper  were  as  cheap  as  the  Flatbacks  are  generous, 
I  should  make  it  a  point  to  allude  to  them,  casually 
at  least,  if  not  favorably  and  at  length.  As  it  is,  I 
must  dismiss  them  with  a  simple  "  God  bless  'em," 
-as  a  people  too  warm-hearted  and  unworldly  for 
serious  notice  in  so  brief  and  pointed  an  article  as 
this.  But  if  time,  Yankees,  Confederate  taxes,  and 
things  generally,  spare  me,  I  intend  some  day  to  do 
them  justice,  and  to  make  the  Flatbacks  and  myself 
as  famous  as  Willis'  Mountain,  Beard's  Old  Tavern, 
or  the  Masonic  Hall  in  Curdsville. 


II Y  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT 
WIVES. 


WE  do  not  marry  our  own  wives !  We  many 
the  wives  of  somebody,  of  anybody  else,  and 
anybody  or  somebody  else  marries  our  wives.  It 
may  sound  very  funny  and  very  silly  to  say  this,  but 
it  is  the  plain,  hard  truth,  and  nine  out  of  ten  mar- 
ried men  will,  in  their  secret  souls,  admit  it.  I  re- 
peat it,  we  don't  marry  our  own  wives;  and  all  the 
lawyers,  legislators,  judges,  jurists,  statesmen,  philo- 
sophers, physiologists  and  phrenologists  on  earth  can't 
make  us  do  it,  or  devise  a  way  by  which  we  might 
do  it,  if  we  chose.  And  I  believe  we  would  choose, 
for  I  have  a  good  opinion  of  human  nature.  This  is 
a  puzzle  for  the  spirit-rappers — a  riddle  which  even 
the  Fourierites  can  not  solve.  Speculation,  ratiocin- 
ation, imagination,  no  mental  faculty  or  process  will 
avail  us  here.  I  doubt  if  that  "  internal  appercep- 
tion at  a  depth  within  the  penetralia  of  consciousness 
to  which  Kant  never  descended,"  of  which  Cousin 
boasts,  will  mend  the  matter.  But  the  reason  is  very 
plain  to  me.  It  was  not  intended  for  us  to  marry 
our  own  wives ;  "  God's  last  best  gift  is  reserved  "  unto 
another  higher  life ;  elsewise  this  earthly  existence 
would  of  itself  be  Heaven. 


234:         MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

And  now  you  know  what  I  mean  by  "wife."  Not 
merely  your  wedded  spouse  and  lawful  mother  of 
your  children,  but  that  woman-soul,  fashioned  by 
God  himself  as  the  one  only  partner  and  complement 
of  your  soul;  truly  the  "better  half"  of  your  inmost 
self;  with  whom  you  are  perfect  man,  without  whom 
you  are  but  an  unhappy  segment,  more  or  less  dimly 
conscious  and  complaining  of  your  incompleteness. 
You  see  I  am  a  believer  in  the  exploded  theory  of 
"  matches  made  in  heaven."  Yes,  I  am ;  for  I  have 
seen  four  sucli  matches  in  my  life,  and  I  do  not  ex- 
aggerate when  I  say  that,  for  them,  the  rmllenium 
has  already  come.  But  I  have  been  lucky ;  for  such 
matches  are  exceedingly  rare,  most  people  never 
having  seen  them  at  all. 

Not  only  do  we  not  marry  our  own  wives,  but  fre- 
quently we  never  so  much  as  see  them,  or,  if  we  do 
see  them,  don't  know  them.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
man  may  see  his  wife  and  know  her  to  be  his  wife, 
but  his  wife  may  not  know  him,  may  never  know 
him  in  this  life ;  vice  versa,  the  wife  may  know  her 
husband  and  never  be  known  by  the  husband,  and  so 
on.  I  wish  to  record  iny  experience  on  this  subject; 
and  if  I  do  so  in  a  somewhat  frivolous  style,  it  must 
not  be  inferred  that  I  am  not  in  earnest ;  the  infer- 
ence might  be  false--"  many  a  true  word  is  spoken 
in  jest." 

It  follows,  or  may  follow,  from  what  has  been  said, 
that  we  are  all  married.  Yes,  that  is  my  opinion. 
Now,  in  the  eye  of  the  law  and  of  society,  I  am  a 
bachelor,  with  every  prospect  of  remaining  a  bach- 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES.         235 

elor ;  but  in  point  of  fact,  and  in  the  eye  of  reason, 
I  am  a  married  man — just  as  much  of  a  married  man 
as  Brigham  Young  is ;  the  only  difference  between 
us  being  that  his  wives  are  visible,  or  to  speak  phil- 
osophically, phenomenal,  while  my  wife  is  not,  ex- 
cept, as  before  said,  in  the  eye  of  reason — particu- 
larly my  reason.  I  say  again,  and  most  emphatically, 
I  am  a  married  man ;  I  say  so  because  I  know  my 
wife,  that  is,  I  know  her  name  and  have  seen  her 
twice.  I  have  never  been  introduced  to  her,  never 
spoke  a  word  to  her  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life, 
and  never  expect  to.  She  doesn't  know  me  from  a 
side  of  sole-leather,  probably  never  heard  of  me ;  and 
if  I  were  to  go  up  to  her  and  tell  her  she  was  rny 
wife  (which  is  the  fact),  would  have  me  put  in  jail  or 
a  mad-house.  But,  poor  thing  !  that's  no  fault  of 
hers  (she  being  entirely  ignorant  of  my  theory,  and 
of  the  eye  of  reason  also),  and  she  is  my  wife,  to  the- 
contrary  notwithstanding. 

The  first  time,  which  was  the  next  to  the  last  time, 
I  ever  saw  her  was  about  three  years  ago — three  years 
ago  exactly,  next  February.  It  was  in  the  town  of 
Plantationton — a  little,  old,  drowsy  town  situated  on 
the  banks  of  a  little  muddy  river,  with  a  long,  ugly 
Indian  name.  The  stage  in  which  I  was  travelling  at 
the  eventful  time  stopped  in  Plantationton,  and  the 
stage-passengers  dined  there  in  a  rusty  old  tavernr 
with  a  big  worm-eaten  porch,  and  a  gangrenous, 
cracked  bell.  I  got  out  of  the  stage,  feeling  very 
cramped-up  and  dirty,  and  straightway  betook  my- 
self to  a  tin  basin  (there  were  half  a  dozen  more  on 


236        MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

the  old,  hacked-up  bench),  full  of  clear,  cold  spring- 
water,  by  the  help  of  which  and  a  piece  of  sticky 
turpentine  soap,  I  managed  to  make  a  very  respect- 
able ablution.  My  face  washed,  I  applied  it  for  a  few 
minutes  to  a  long,  greasy,  ragged  old  linen  towel, 
that  hung  up  on  a  roller  fastened  to  a  scabby,  old 
weather-boarding ;  then  I  parted  my  hair  with  the 
half  of  an  old  horn  comb  that  was  tied  to  a  string, 
and  smoothed  it  with  a  little,  old,  wiry,  worn-out  hair- 
brush that  was  tied  to  another  string;  and  then  I  was 
ready  for  dinner,  which  was  not  yet  ready  for  me. 
Pending  dinner,  I  sat  down  in  a  split-bottomed  chair 
elevated  my  heels,  leaned  back,  took  out  my  knife 
and  commenced  paring  my  nails.  I  had  seen  the 
little  old  town  frequently  before,  and  didn't  care  to 
see  it  again,  especially  on  a  miserable,  gummy,  cloudy, 
damp,  chilly  day  in  February,  and  so  confined  my 
attention  for  some  time  to  my  fingers,  of  which  I  am 
rather  proud.  But,  fortunately  for  me,  I  heard  an 
old  fellow  behind  me  say,  "By  dads !  she's  beautiful ;" 
and  looking  up,  saw  the  young  lady  alluded  to.  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  had  never  looked  down !  She  was  stand- 
ing exactly  opposite  me,  in  the  front  door  of  a  dried- 
up  wooden  store ;  her  head  was  turned  up  the  street, 
as  if  she  was  looking  for  somebody,  and  her  lit- 
tle foot  was  patting  the  sill  with  the  sauciest, 
sweetest  impatience  imaginable.  That  young  lady 
was  my  wife  !  I  didn't  know  it  then,  but  I  know  it 
now. 

She   was    beautiful — bewi tellingly    beautiful — so 
beautiful  that  for  a  long  time  I  did  not  know  I  was 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES.         237 

looking  at  her — didn't  know  I  was  looking  at  any 
tiling— didn't  know  any  thing.  The  joy  of  her 
presence  was  flowing  in  one  uninterrupted  stream 
through  all  the  avenues  of  sense,  and  it  was  not  un- 
til my  soul  became  full  to  the  brim  of  her  beauty 
that  I  could  say  I  saw  at  all.  Whether  she  was 
dressed  in  silk,  barege^  delaine,  or  calico  I  could  never 
tell,  and  never  cared;  I  remember  only  her  little 
bonnet  of  simple  straw — neat,  trim,  and  vastly  be- 
coming, as  the  bonnets  of  pretty  women  always  are. 
She  was  young — not  more  than  eighteen — rather 
above  the  medium  height;  of  round  and  perfect 
figure  ;  her  hair  was  golden,  and  her  eyes  were  blue ; 
her  complexion  pure  as  light  itself,  fresh  as  the  dew, 
and  glowing  as  the  dawn.  She  must  have  felt  the 
many  eyes  feeding  on  her  cheek  and  brow,  for  she 
turned  presently,  and  how  instantly  the  impatient 
little  foot  disappeared,  how  archly  modest  the  smile 
that  illumined  her  lightly-blushing  face !  I  could 
read  her  character  at  a  glance.  She  was  warm,  and 
tender,  and  true ;  good,  wise,  merry,  healthy,  happy, 
sweet-tempered,  willing,  patient,  loving,  tidy,  thrifty, 
and  sincere,  and  every  thing  a  wife  ought  to  be  or 
could  be.  Why  didrft  I  know  she  was  my  wife  ? 
Why  didn't  she  come  over  and  tell  me  so  ?  Alas ! 
we  were  both  blind — and  she  remains  so  still ! 

There  I  sat,  drinking  my  fill  of  beauty — inhaling 
bliss  at  every  breath.  How  little  did  she  dream  of 
what  was  going  on  in  my  soul !  How  could  she  tell 
that  her  radiant  image  was  effacing  all  other  images 
from  my  heart,  to  be  itself  effaced  for  a  time,  but 


238         MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

only  to  reappear  in  the  hallowing  and  charmful  hues 
of  memory — the  one  solitary  and  sufficing  ideal  of 
my  unblessed  life !  She  saw  me  gazing,  at  her,  but 
only  as  she  had  seen  hundreds  gaze  before. 

A  primrose,  'mid  the  tavern's  stir, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  her, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

I  was  only  a  sallow-faced  young  man,  with  a  black 
mustache  and  a  deal  of  impudence.  I  didn't  look 
like  her  husband  a  bit ;  but  I  was  her  husband  for 
all  that — I  know  I  was. 

Fair  reader,  let  us  here  moralize  a  little.  But  no ; 
I  am  not  good  at  that,  and,  besides,  I  am  too  prolix 
any  way.  Yet  remember,  beautiful  maiden,  and  be 
watchful  of  your  looks ;  for,  all  unknown  to  yourself, 
you  may  be  shaping  for  life,  and  perhaps  for  life  be- 
yond life,  the  destiny  of  some  ill-looking  biped 
who  glares  at  you  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street ! 

All  the  other  stage-passengers,  and  all  the  tobacco- 
spitting  loungers  about  the  tavern,  were  gazing  at 
her  as  well  as  myself;  she  knew  it,  too — the  little 
rogue  ! — and  was  pleased,  as  she  ought  to  have  been. 
She  ceased  to  look  for  that  somebody  up  the  street, 
who  never  came,  and  stole  a  sweet,  bright  glance 
toward  us,  as  if  to  say,  "  I  can't  help  being  pretty, 
indeed  I  can't.  I  am  glad  you  think  me  so,  and  you 
may  look  as  long  as  you  please ;  I  sha'n't  charge  you 
anything." 

Bless  her  sweet  little  soul!     Every  man  in  that 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES.         239 

porch  ought  to  have  bent  his  knee  in  homage  to  so 
much  beauty  and  goodness. 

But  the  confounded  dinner-bell  rang,  and  the 
beasts  in  broadcloth  rushed  to  their  food  just  as  any 
other  beasts  would  have  done.  I  am  ashamed  to 
confess  it,  but  a  most  unromantic  sense  of  propriety 
smote  me  the  moment  I  heard  that  accursed  bell. 
"  It  is  out  of  the  question,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  for 
you  to  be  staring  that  young  lady  out  of  countenance ; 
get  right  up  and  go  to  your  dinner.  It  is  true,  you 
may  never  see  so  beautiful  a  face  again,  but  then, 
you  know,  your  health  is  delicate,  and  it  won't  do  to 
neglect  so  important  a  meal  as  dinner.  You  have  a 
long  and  wearisome  ride  before  you;  besides,  she 
don't  care  anything  for  you,  and  even  if  she  did,  you 
are  in  no  condition  to  marry." 

Thus  did  mere  animal  cravings  prevail  against  the 
sweet  appeals  of  beauty ;  aud  thus  (as  the  last  clause 
of  my  mental  argumentation  abundantly  shows)  did 
my  mind  unconsciously  refuse  to  entertain  the  possi- 
bility of  a  rejection,  and  so  assert  the  truth  of  the 
statement  I  have  made,  namely,  that  she  was  my 
wife.  The  world  will  call  this  vanity,  but  I  call  it 
intuition  or  spontaneous  unconscious  apperception. 
With  great  reluctance  I  rose  as  if  to  go;  she  saw 
that  all  except  myself  had  gone,  but  still  stood  in  the 
front  door  of  that  dried-up  old  store,  patting  the  sill 
once  more  with  the  tip  of  her  tiny  little  slipper. 
She  was  so  good  that  she  could  not  refuse  to  gladden 
even  one  poor  mortal  with  the^light  of  her  blessed 
^countenance.  It  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I 


24:0         MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

might  save  fifty  cents  by  missing  my  dinner ;  avarice 
had  come  to  the  aid  of  beauty,  and  I  sat  down  again. 
But  hunger  (yes,  miserable  human  that  I  am,  it  was 
hunger)  defeated  them  both. 

Ah !  if  I  had  only  known  then  as  much  as  I  know 
now,  how  differently  I  would  have  acted.  I  would 
have  dismissed  the  contemptible  subject  of  dinner, 
and,  having  summoned  a  waiter,  would  have  ad- 
dressed him  thus:  "Boy,  do  you  see  that  old  red 
trunk  in  the  boot  of  the  stage  yonder?  Well,  just- 
take  that  trunk  off ;  I  am  so  pleased  with  your  lovely 
village  that  I  intend  to  stay  here  until  I  get  married." 
The  young  lady  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
would  have  heard  me;  it  would  have  produced  a 
deep  impression  on  her  (and  first  impressions,  you 
know,  are  everything) ;  I  would  have  remained  in 
my  seat  until  the  young  lady  left ;  I  would  have 
eaten  my  dinner  in  peace ;  afterward  I  would  have 
donned  my  new  doeskin  breeches  and  my  new  black 
coat;  then,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  I  would  have  pro- 
cured an  introduction  to  my  wife;  and  after  a  while 
I  would  have  married  her — there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
Although  I  was  poor,  her  beauty  and  her  love  would 
have  made  me  rich ;  my  love  for  her  would  have 
made  me  strong  and  able  to  work;  by  this  time  I 
would  have  acquired  a  standing  in  society — I  would 
have  been  happy. 

But  I  sold  my  wife  for  a  mess  of  pottage — I  went 
in  to  dinner.  When  I  reached  the  door  of  the 
dining-room  I  hesitated,  went  back  to  the  porch  and 
commenced  gazing  at  my  wife  as  before.  She  saw 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES.         241 

me,  and  gave  me  a  smile ;  upon  my  honor  she  did. 
It  was  the  sweetest  smile  I  ever  received.  I  may 
have  valued  smiles  before,  but  it  is  certain  I  have 
never  valued  one  since.  Whatever  made  me  return 
to  the  dining-room  after  receiving  so  great  a  favor 

1  could  never  remember.     It  was  so  fated.     I  did 
go  back  to  the   dining-room,  harried   through  my 
dinner,  which  had  become  cold  and  indigestible,  and 
hurried  back  to  the  porch.     She  had  gone  ! 

The  stage  was  waiting  for  me ;  I  jumped  in,  and  it 
rattled  out  of  the  little  old  town.  We  had  not  gone 
many  miles  before  the  consequences  of  hasty  eating 
brought  on  a  terrible  attack  of  dyspepsia.  I  became 
painfully  aware  that  I  had  lost  my  dinner  and  my 
fifty  cents ;  but  I  did  not  know  I  had  lost  my  wife — 

2  forgot  her  !     I  was  returning,  after  a  long  absence, 
to  my  native  city,  to  enter  upon  a  new  and  untried 
profession ;  and  there  were  a  thousand  things  to  oc- 
cupy my  attention,  to  the  exclusion,  not  only  of  wives, 
but  even  of  sweethearts.     So  I  lost  my  wife  and 
didrft  know  it !     And  so,  I  imagine,  most  of  us  lose 
our  wives. 

About  a  year  and  a  half  afterwards ;  that  is,  about 
one  year  ago,  having  failed  in  business,  as  an  aimless, 
unmarried — that  is,  phenomenally  unmarried — man 
is  very  apt  to  do ;  though  it  doesn't  make  much  dif- 
ference if  such  a  man  does  fail,  especially  after  he 
has  lost  his  wife — having  failed  in  business,  I  say,, 
and  having  nothing  to  do,  I  returned  to  Plantationtonr 
not  in  the  stage,  but  in  the  cars,  the  railroad  having 
been  in  the  meantime  completed.  So  completely 
16 


242         MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

had  my  wife  gone  out  of  my  mind,  that  I  did  not 
once  think  of  her  when  I  sat  down  in  the  old  tavern 
porch  and  looked  over  at  the  dried-up  little  store,  in 
the  door  of  which  I  had  seen  her  patting  her  little 
foot  so  prettily.  I  ordered  a  buggy  and  drove  out 
to  my  uncle's,  about  three  miles  from  town,  and  spent 
many  pleasant  weeks  there  during  the  hot  summer 
months.  Being  a  young  man  of  a  marriageable  age, 
my  relations  very  naturally  offered  to  introduce  rne  to 
the  marriageable  ladies  of  the  neighborhood.  I  ex- 
pressed my  willingness.  Which  sort  did  I  fancy — 
fair  or  dark,  blonde  or  brunette  ?  Fair,  by  all  means ; 
who  ever  heard  of  a  sallow  man  fancying  a  woman 
of  his  own  complexion?  Oh!  then,  I  ought  to 
have  been  here  a  year  ago ;  there  was  a  young  lady 
living  in  town,  a  great  friend  of  ours,  perfectly  beau- 
tiful, and  the  very  best  girl  in  all  the  world,  who 
would  have  suited  me  exactly.  Ah,  who  was  she  ? 
Miss  Jenny  So-and-so.  Jenny!  the  very  name  I 
want  my  wife  to  have;  describe  her  to  me.  They 
described  her.  It  was  the  identical  young  lady  I 
had  seen  standing  in  the  old  store.  I  became  ex- 
cited, and  my  pulse  rose  as  I  asked  the  question, 
"  Where  is  she  now?"  "Oh!  she  has  been  married 
.a  long  time  to  Mr.  Thingamy,  and  lives  now  in  the 
.city  of  Jacksburg,  about  a  hundred  miles  from  here." 
My  pulse  sank,  not  because  I  knew  she  was  my  wife 
(that  is  quite  a  recent  discovery),  and  I  had  lost  her, 
but  for  the  good  and  sufficient  reason  (which  authors 
have  but  lately  had  the  honesty  to  avow)  that  every 
bachelor  feels  himself  defrauded  when  a  pretty 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES.         24:3 

woman  marries.  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I 
wished  Mr.  Thingamy  and  the  city  of  Jacksburg  had 
been  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  before  they  ever  had 
heard  of  the  beautiful  Miss  Jenny.  I  felt  indignant 
she  should  have  displayed  so  much  haste  to  get  mar- 
ried; and  I  refused  to  be  introduced  to  anybody  in 
the  neighborhood  of  my  uncle's.  But  whenever 
-conversation  (as  it  will  often  do  in  the  best  of  fami- 
lies) turned  on  the  subject  of  young  ladies,  my  uncle's 
family  were  sure  to  bring  their  favorite  Miss  Jenny 
forward  as  a  paragon  of  beauty,  sweetness,  good- 
breeding,  good  every  thing.  As  often  as  this  would 
happen  an  unaccountable  depression  and  feeling  of 
loneliness  and  bereavement  would  come  over  rne,  and 
last  for  hours.  I  can  now  account  for  it — it  was  the 
as  yet  inarticulate,  unintelligible  premonition — a 
species  of  spontaneous,  unconscious  apperception — of 
nature,  protesting  against,  and  at  the  same  time  pre- 
paring me  for,  the  full  consciousness  of  the  great 
loss  I  had  sustained  in  losing  my  wife.  My  uncle 
had  named  a  beautiful  kitten  after  her;  do  you 
wonder  that  I  petted  Jenny,  and  fed  her  and  caressed 
her  every  day  I  remained  in  the  country  ?  I  do  not. 
I  am  naturally  fond  of  cats,  and  that,  they  say,  is  a 
sign  I  am  going  to  be  an  old  bachelor.  Well,  what 
if  it  is  ? 

When  the  summer  was  ended,  I  left  my  uncle's 
and  returned  home,  still  ignorant  that  I  had  lost 
my  wife,  and  forgetting  her  as  before.  For  nearly 
a  year  I  knocked  about  among  the  young  ladies, 
falling  now  a  little  in  love,  and  then  falling  out 


MY  WIFE,   AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

again ;  charging  myself  with  fickleness  and  want  of 
decision  of  character,  and  wondering  greatly  why  I 
could  nut  fall  really  in  love  with  any  body.  Poor 
fool!  I  didn't  know  that  there  was  nobody  left  to 
love ;  I  was  married  and  didn't  know  it.  Many  a 
man  is  in  the  same  fix. 

Things  remained  in  this  condition  until  about  a 
month  ago,  when,  having  failed  a  second  time  in 
business,  I  concluded  to  spend  another  summer  at 
my  uncle's.  The  cars  dropped  me  at  Plantationton ; 
I  went  to  the  same  old  tavern,  sat  down  in  the  same 
old  porch,  in  the  same  old  split-bottomed  chair,  and 
looked  over  at  the  same  old  store,  and  there,  by 
heaven !  stood  my  wife,  in  almost  the  very  spot  I 
had  first  seen  her.  She  was  waiting  for  her  husband, 
who  was  following  with  the  nurse  and  child.  Her 
husband  was  a  dark-skinned  fellow — almost  as  dark 
as  myself,  and  not  very  unlike  me.  I  have  since  ex- 
pended some  severe  thought  on  this  resemblance  be- 
tween me,  the  spiritual  husband,  and  Thingamy,  the 
phenomenal  husband  of  my  wife,  and  it  is  perfectly 
plain  to  my  mind  that,  under  the  influence  of  the 
same  spontaneous,  unconscious  apperception,  she  was 
trying  her  very  best  to  marry  me ;  in  fact,  did  marry 
as  near  me  as  she  possibly  could.  How  that  fact 
has  made  me  love  her ! 

The  whole  party  had  come  down  on  the  same  train 
with  me,  and  I  had  not  known  it.  Fate  again. 
They  stood  opposite  me  for  some  time,  apparently 
resting,  and  I  had  the  second  and  last  (I  know  it 
will  be  the  last)  long,  good  look  at  her.  She  was 


MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEOKY  ABOUT  WIVES.         245 

greatly  changed.  Xo  longer  the  same  buxom, 
blooming  girl  I  had  seen  years  before,  patting  her 
pretty  foot  against  the  sill,  but  a  beautiful  woman, 
infinitely  lovelier  than  the  girl;  pale,  but  beautiful 
as  the  bright  fulfilment  of  the  perfect  day  is  beauti- 
ful— more  beautiful  than  the  rosiest  hues  of  the 
uncertain  dawn;  thin,  but  beautiful,  as  thought  and 
loving  cares  beautify  and  make  delicate  mere  matter ; 
older  looking,  but  possessed  of  that  ineffable  charm 
which  only  the  realization  of  woman's  destiny  can 
impart  to  woman.  I  gazed  on  her,  not  with  breath- 
less admiration  as  at  first,  but  with  calm,  intelligent 
adoration.  Positively,  hers  was  and  is  the  sweetest 
human  face  in  all  this  world.  Nothing,  absolutely 
nothing  was  wanting  from  those  pale  and  gentle 
features ;  they  expressed  all  that  a  wife  and  mother 
ought  to  be.  And  even  as  I  gazed,  there  came  into 
my  soul  that  strange  pain  of  vacuity  and  depriva- 
tion— a  numb  and  formless  hurt — which  needed 
only  the  light  of  reflection  to  assume  the  acuteness 
of  thought,  the  permanence  of  knowledge. 

From  that  day  I  have  known  she  was  my  wife; 
how  I  knew  it,  and  why  I  knew  it,  has  been  told 
already,  or  if  not  told,  never  will  be,  for  it  never  can 
be.  The  knowledge  or  conviction,  if  you  prefer  to 
call  it  so,  grows  on  me  ;  it  increases  with  the  increas- 
ing light  of  morning,  is  revealed  in  the  splendor  of 
high  noon,  deepens  in  the  pensive  summer  twilight, 
and  rises  with  the  tutelary  stars.  The  winds  tell  of 
it  to  the  melancholy  trees ;  the  waters  repeat  it  with 
their  many  liquid  voices.  It  is  written  in  cloudy 


246         MY  WIFE,  AND  MY  THEORY  ABOUT  WIVES. 

hieroglyphs  upon  the  distant  sky;  it  is  the  shadow 
thrown  upon  the  plain  of  life  by  the  sun  of  hope 
which  sinks  behind  my  heart — enlarging  and  to  en- 
large, darkening  and  to  increase  in  darkness  until 
the  night  of  death.  It  is — but  I  am  getting  absurd. 

Shall  I  remain  a  bachelor?  dwindle  down  and 
shrivel  up  into  an  old  bachelor  ?  Never !  Since  I 
cannot  marry  my  own  wife,  I'll  marry  the  wife  of 
somebody  else ;  and  if  I  could  only  find  the  wife  of 
the  man  who  married  my  wife,  I'd  mar^y  her  in 
spite  of  fate.  And  if  I  could  only  ride  about  in  the 
cars  with  a  plenty  of  nurses  and  children,  and  Thin- 
gamy could  see  me  and  know  my  theory,  I  should 
be  perfectly  satisfied. 

Dear  reader,  take  warning  by  me;  study  my 
theory ;  it  was  written  for  you,  and  for  the  whole 
human  race.  Try  to  cultivate  your  spontaneous, 
unconscious  apperception.  And  if  ever  you  sit  down 
in  an  old  tavern  porch  and  see  a  beautiful  young 
lady  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  don't  wait 
for  dinner,  but  go  right  over  and  demand  her  in 
marriage.  You  may  be  mistaken ;  she  may  not  be 
your  wife ;  she  may  be  already  married ;  but  no 
matter,  it  is  your  duty  to  make  the  effort.  If  you 
don't,  you'll  regret  it ;  you  will  find  yourself  in  my 
predicament.  You  may  see  me  any  day  struggling 
through  the  weeds  of  my  uncle's  wheat  field,  look- 
ing and  feeling  unutterably  mean.  No  wonder ;  I 
have  lost  my  wife  ! 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 


A  BEECH  grows  askant  the  Appomattox  that 
_jLJL_  curves  around  the  foot  of  Uncle  Jim's  plan- 
tation. The  stream,  generally  muddy,  is  clear  now 
as  a  maiden's  eye.  Deep  under  the  bushy  banks,  it 
flows  with  a  still  surface,  but  a  strong  current,  a 
moving  mirror,  that  reflects  the  fair  October  skies, 
and  every  limb  and  leaf  of  the  over-hanging  trees  in 
beauty  not  their  own,  for,  under  the  perfectly  out- 
lined forms  of  branch  and  spray,  drooping  vines  and 
fluttering  leaves,  lie  the  mysterious,  immeasurable 
depths  of  heaven.  'Tis  a  strange  feeling  that  comes 
over  a  man  as  he  looks  down,  down,  down  into  those 
depths,  so  fathomless,  so  wondrous  lovely,  and  yet 
so  near  at  hand — the  cunning  trick  of  light  reflected 
from  calm  water.  You  come  back  with  a  start  when 
you  remember  how  simple  it  all  is. 

The  beech  I  spoke  of  is  of  great  age.  Poor  old 
soul !  he  has  seen  his  best  days ;  he  is  dying  now.' 
As  he  bends  over  the  water,  with  his  lean  uplifted 
arms  stretched  out,  he  reminds  me  of  an  old  fellow 
putting  on  an  overcoat  that  is  too  tight  across  the 
shoulders  for  him.  I  fancy  I  can  hear  the  big,  pite- 
ous splash  he  will  make  when  he  topples  over  into 
the  river,  and  can  see  his  great  corpse  floating  along, 
the  naked  limbs  thrust  up  appealingly,  helplessly, 
from  his  watery  grave,  till  the  negroes  come  and 


248  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

catch  him,  and  cut  him  up  with  brutal  axes,  and 
burn  him  in  their  quarters  'way  into  the  long  winter 
nights.  But,  thank  goodness !  the  old  fellow  is 
tough  and  gristly ;  he  will  hang  on  the  bank  many 
and  manjr  a  day  yet,  and  I  hope  to  catch  abundance 
of  flat-back  from  under  his  sheltering  boughs  before 
he  takes  his  final  plunge. 

The  best  thing  about  the  old  beech  is  this :  lean- 
ing over  so  far  from  the  bank,  the  better  to  look  at 
himself,  no  doubt,  (he  must  have  been  vain  of  his 
personal  appearance  in  youth,  and  I  don't  wonder  at 
it,  nor  blame  him  a  bit),  leaning  over  in  this  way,  he 
has  been  compelled  to  send  out  a  tremendous  growth 
of  roots  to  hold  on  by.  All  gnarled,  twisted,  and 
interlaced,  these  roots  form  as  nice  a  rustic  arm  chair 
as  heart  could  wish — the  best  place  to  fish  you  ever 
sawr.  You  can  sit  down,  lean  back,  rest  your  feet, 
do  anything  you  please.  Then  the  seat  is  so  per- 
fectly clean.  And  it  is  nicely  shaded,  too.  With 
your  pole  fixed  in  a  crevice  right  at  your  hand,  you 
can  smoke  or  read,  prepared  in  a  moment,  when  a 
mullet  nibbles  to  take  him. 

.As  Uncle  Jim's  plantation  was  once  a  part  of  the 
"Bizarre  Estate,"  this  old  beech  has  a  historical 
value.  I  look  upon  his  roots  with  great  respect. 
Jack,  and  Dick,  and  Judy,  and  Nancy  Kandolph 
have  reposed  their  aristocratic  bones  on  these  same 
roots  often  and  often.  But  I  look  upon  these  roots 
with  awe.  In  the  far  past,  a  mightier  race  than  the 
Randolphs  was  here.  Indians  and  Randolphs  alike 
are  gone ;  we  shall  see  them  no  more.  In  fact,  I 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  249 

never  saw  them  at  all ;  but  I  am  pleased  that  mine 
-eyes  have  dwelt  their  humble  glances  on  those  vene- 
rated roots,  so  honored  in  the  days  of  yore. 

It  is  early  in  the  morning  when  "  me  and  Billy 
Ivvins"  and  the  other  fellows  set  forth  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  old  beech.  The  air  is  crisp  and  cool. 
One  of  the  fellows  has  a  double-barreled  gun.  The 
morn,  like  an  eastern  queen,  is  sumptuously  clad  in 
blue  and  gold;  the  sheen  of  her  robes  is  dazzling 
sun-light,  and  she  comes  from  her  tent  of  glistening, 
silken,  celestial  warp,  beaming  with  tender  smiles. 
Billy  Ivvins  totes  six  slender  pine  poles  on  his  left 
shoulder,  and  a  cymling  full  of  the  best  and  biggest 
fishing  worms  in  his  right  hand.  The  woods,  painted 
in  all  the  gorgeous  dyes  of  autumn,  repose  on  the 
distant  hills,  their  tops  trembling  in  the  fresh  breeze. 
One  of  the  party  carries  a  cold  ash-cake  to  bait  the 
hole  with.  The  day  is  beautiful  exceedingly.  The 
veil  of  dusky  silver,  the  haze  of  Indian  summer,  is 
rent  in  twain,  and  we  see  nature  face  to  face,  in  the 
unclouded  glory  of  her  beauty — 

"  Sweet  day  !  so  calm,  so  cool,  so  bright, 
.    The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky." 

I've  got  two  splendid  Woodall  pipes,  plenty  of 
first-rate  smoking  tobacco,  and  a  box  of  German 
matches  in  my  pocket.  It  is  a  day  of  days  for  flat- 
back,  provided  the  moon  is  right.  Flatback  won't 
bite  on  the  wane  of  the  moon ;  nothing  but  nigger- 
knockers  bite  then — nigger-knockers  and  eels. 

However,  we  are  going  to  try,  moon  or  no  moon. 
.Billy  Ivvins  swears  that  the  planetary  bodies  have 


250  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

nothing  to  do  with  fish — its  all  confounded  supersti- 
tion. 

Arrived  at  the  beech,  the  lines  are  quickly  un- 
wrapped from  the  poles,  the  hooks  (Sutherland's  best) 
are  baited  with  two  long  worms  each,  a  few  crumbs 
of  bread  are  cast  in  to  keep  the  roach  and  other  lit- 
tle fish  busy  ;  out  go  the  sinkers  as  far  to  the  middle 
of  the  stream  as  the  poles  will  allow,  the  corks  after 
wabbling  for  a  little  while  settle  down  and  set  jauntily 
on  the  water ;  the  poles  are  fastened  between  the 
roots,  and  the   irrepressible    piscatorial  conflict  be- 
gins.    Billy  Ivvins  leans  against  the  trunk  of  the 
old  beech  ;  next  him  is  Billy  Y.,  then  comes  Dr.  X., 
the  best  fisherman  of  the  party,  and,  lastly,  myself, 
perched  far  out  on  a  projecting  root.     They  tell  me 
the  root  is  rotten,  and  that  I  will  fall  into  the  water ; 
but'  I  know  my  weight  better.     The  fish  don't  bite 
fast.     I  predict  that  we  are  going  to  have  bad  luck.. 
Billy  Y.  does  the  same  thing.     Billy  Ivvins  swears 
that  we  are  "  'boun  to  take  'em."     Dr.  X.  sits  per- 
fectly silent.     We  all  watch  our  corks  :  no  move- 
ment.    A  desultory  talk  springs  up,  mainly  about 
the  Harper's  Ferry  affair.     Billy  Ivvins  swears  that 
an  attempt  will  be  made  to  rescue  "  old  Brown." 
"  He  is  of  the  opinion  that  the  country  is  full  of  ab- 
olitionists;  says  that  these  oil-cloth  and  table-cloth 
men  that  tramp   about  the  State  are  nothing  but 
emissaries  of  the  underground — they  ought  all  to  be 
hung.     And  all  these  northern  preachers,  professors, 
and  school-teachers,  that  we  have  amongst  us,  ought 
to  be  made  to  swear  an  oath  of  allegiance  to  Vir- 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  251 

ginia,  or  else  be  immediately  killed.  He  thinks- 
"  Gizzard  "  the  very  man  for  the  present  crisis.  Ding 
'em !  he'll  swing  'em.  Gizzard's  good  grit  as  ever 
fluttered.  If  Brown  is  acquitted,  he  (Billy  I.)  will 
be  one  of  twelve  men  to  follow  him  and  shoot  him 
on  sight,  wherever  found.  Brown  ought  to  be  hung, 
drawn  and  quartered,  his  head  stuck  over  the  peni- 
tentiary, and  the  rest  of  him  suspended  in  trees  in 
various  parts  of  the  State,  a  terror  to  all  who  be- 
hold. 

"The  militia  ought  to  be  thoroughly  organized. 
He  wondered  why  old  Gizzard  had  not  done  this  be- 
fore. Fine  every  man  ten  dollars  who  don't  attend 
muster,"  etc.,  etc. 

Dr.  X.  thinks  he  has  a  nibble,  and  begs  Billy  to 
stop  talking,  which  he  does  reluctantly. 

We  all  admire  the  glorious  weather,  the  lovely 
day,  the  sweet  seclusion  by  the  river-side,  under  the 
beechen  boughs,  with  the  fresh  wind  pouring  its  in- 
visible flood  over  our  heads  as  we  sit  under  the  bank,, 
and  shaking  down  a  Danse  shower  of  golden  leaves 
from  the  trees. 

There  is  a  plenty  to  interest  and  charm  us  beside 
the  world  of  inanimate  nature  around  us. 

The  tree  tops  are  full  of  robins  eating  grapes. 
How  they  chirp,  and  flutter,  and  shriek,  and  dash 
about !  as  if  half  afraid  and  altogether  delighted,, 
like  a  parcel  of  school-girls  bathing  in  a  shallow 
creek.  Crows  by  the  hundred  wing  their  level  flight 
over  the  field  back  of  ns,  cawing  as  they  go.  They 
are  preparing  to  hold  a  caucus  in  the  pines  over  there. 


252  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

Here  comes  a  gust  of  blackbirds.  They  wheel  im- 
petuously, and  alight  in  an  instant,  as  if  drilled,  high 
on  the  limbs  of  a  dead  birch-tree  right  opposite  us, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  There  they  are,  all 
in  a  lump,  the  black  rascals,  looking  at  us  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  you  please.  It  is  as  much  as  we  can  do  to 
keep  Billy  Y.  from  banging  away  at  them.  But  it 
will  never  do  to  scare  the  fish.  Whew  !  robins  and 
blackbirds  go  off  in  a  tumultuous  cloud. 

What's  the  matter  now  ?  Alia  !  No  wonder  you 
new  so  quickly,  my  little  fellows.  There's  a  hawk, 
a  big  grey  one,  comes  swooping  on  noiseless  wings 
out  of  the  sky.  By  jingo!  he's  lit  not  forty  feet 
from  us.  Shuh  !  he's  gone,  without  a  sound,  before 
Billy  Y.  can  get  to  his  gun.  "  Hallo  !  hallo  !  what's 
that  ?"  "  Otter."  "  Otter  the  devil — it's  a  mus'rat. 
No,  'taint — it's  a  duck."  "  'Taint  a  duck  either,  it's  a 
didapper."  "  There  he  is  ;  there  he  is  ;  I  saw  him 
when  he  rose."  Billy  Y.  is  after  him  ;  but  he  might 
as  well  try  to  shoot  a  witch  without  a  silver  bullet. 
We  hear  his  gun  go  off,  and  he  comes  back  presently 
bringing  a  field-lark  in  his  hand,  the  yellow  breast 
all  rumpled,  and  the  brown  wings  hanging  limp  and 
lifeless. 

Meantime  Dr.  X.  has  caught  one  or  two  fish — 
small  ones — whitesides.  Billy  Ivvins,  in  great 
wrath,  has  pulled  out  a  hideous  nigger-knocker,  and 
I  have  had  a  glorious  nibble.  Billy  Y.  is  in  bad 
luck ;  not  a  thing  has  touched  his  "  stopper ;"  he  is 
restless,  and  keeps  moving  about,  to  the  great  an- 
noyance of  that  exemplary  fisherman  Dr.  X.,  a 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  253 

model  of  quietness  and  taciturnity.  Billy  I  wins 
swears  that  Billy  Y.  has  got  the  "  evil  hand,"  and 
that's  the  reason  the  fish  won't  bite  at  any  thing  he 
has  touched.  Whereupon  I  make  a  pun,  and  say 
that  Billy  Y.'s  evil  hand  has  given  his  pole  the  pole- 
evil.  Billy  I  wins  swears  he  will  kill  me  for  a  fool. 
We  hear  a  squirrel  barking  down  the  river,  and 
the  "evil  hand"  goes  after  him,  and  brings  him. 
The  fish  are  beginning  to  bite  pretty  well — one  or 
two  medium-sized  flat-back  have  been  landed  by  Dr. 
X.  Again  there  is  silence,  interrupted  only  by  the 
restless  and  unlucky  Billy  Y.,  and  two  little  negro 
girls  who  are  picking  peas  in  the  cornfield  across  the 
river.  The  corn  has  been  topped,  and  stripped  of 
its  broad  fodder  blades,  each  stalk  holds  out  a  heavy 
yellow  pouch,  giving  promise  of  endless  pone  for  the 
coming  year.  A  slight  rustle  is  heard  in  the  weeds 
over  the  way.  Perhaps  the  partridges  are  there — a 
glorious  flock,  not  less  than  a  hundred  have  grown 
up  in  Uncle  Jim's  plantation  during  the  summer, 
and  have  come  down  to  spend  the  fall  in  the  low- 
grounds.  But  while  we  look,  a  small  inquisitive 
head,  with  a  Roman  crest,  and  an  eye  half  hidden 
in  a  white  circlet,  peers  out  of  the  weeds;  and 
presently  a  sinuous,  graceful  neck  is  lifted  high, 
disclosing  a  breast  cuirassed  in  blue,  burnished  steel ; 
it  is  a  lordly  peacock,  with  his  mate,  anxiously  in- 
quiring the  meaning  of  those  strange  forms  seated 
on  the  old  root  over  against  him.  And  now  a  shadow 
with  expanded  wings  is  seen  in  the  limpid  depths 
of  the  stream.  We  look  up,  and  lo  !  far,  far  aloft  in 


254:  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 


bright  October  heavens  there  floats,  on  stretched 
unmoving  pinions,  a  buzzard  —  that  hungry  black  re- 
publican democrat  of  the  skies  —  surveying  the  wide 
territory  below  him,  intent  on  practical  squatter 
.sovereignty,  and  seeking  where  he  may  intervene  to 
protect  the  carcass  of  a  deceased  cow  or  mule. 
Several  of  them,  belonging  to  Uncle  Jim,  having 
paid  the  forfeit  of  too  deep  affection  for  poisonous 
-mushrooms,  now  lie  stark  and  cold  in  the  pines  be- 
yond the  tobacco-house.  Billy  Y.  proposes  "un- 
friendly legislation  "  in  the  shape  of  three  fingers  of 
shot;  but  as  it  is  important  to  preserve  the  harmony 
of  the  party  (the  fishing  party),  Senator  Douglas  —  I 
beg  pardon,  I  should  have  said  the  buzzard,  is  per- 
mitted to  go  on-  his  way  unmolested. 

Our  lines  are  continually  disturbed  by.  dead  leaves. 
They  appear  to  love  to  hang  around  the  corks,  like 
a  parcel  of  red-nosed  topers  round  a  bottle.  As 
they  come  sailing  down  the  river,  myriads  in  num- 
ber, and  of  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  one  can't 
help  thinking  that  somebody  has  split  a  quilting  up 
the  stream,  and  is  naturally  anxious  to  see  the  girls, 
.and  find  out  how  the  accident  occurred.  I'll  bet 
there  are  some  boys  up  there,  and  that  the  quilting 
frame,  baskets  of  scraps,  etc.,  got  upset  while  a 
tremendous  romping  was  going  on. 

"Hush!"  says  Dr.  X.  (Nobody  has  said  a  word.) 
"I've  got  a  bite;"  he  goes  on,  calmly;  "that's  a  flat- 
back.  I  know  by  the  way  he  bites,  and  I  shall  cer- 
tainly catch  him."  We  look  —  the  cork  gives  scarcely 
.a  sign,  and  the  next  moment  out  comes  a  dripping 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  255 

ingot  of  silver,  glistening  brightly  in  the  sun.  The 
ingot  proves  to  be  a  goodly  flat-back,  and  is  soon 
thrown  high  and  dry  on  the  bank.  Billy  Ivvins 
swears  that  the  pint  of  his  hook  is  out,  and  that's 
the  reason  the  fish  haven't  bit  at  him  this  half  hour. 
He  pulls  at  length,  and  up  comes  a  tolerable  sized 
flat-back,  who  had  been  quietly  sucking  all  the  time. 
Now  I  have  a  decided  nibble.  "  It's  nothing  but  a 
roach,"  says  Billy.  "Give  him  plenty  of  time," 
says  the  Doctor.  So  I  w^ait  till  I  can  wait  no  longer, 
and  then  jerk:  and  by  Jove!  its  a  splendid  mullet. 
The  fish  are  beginning  to  bite  in  earnest ;  everybody 
catches  them  except  Billy  with  the  "evil  hand;" 
not  even  a  nigger-knocker  will  bite  at  him.  And 
the  fish  get  bigger  and  bigger,  pull  stronger  and 
stronger.  Soon  the  Doctor  hangs  a  whaler — a  flat- 
back  sixteen  inches  long,  how  he  pulls !  How  he 
bends  the  pole!  "Let  him  play,  let  him  play!"  is 
the  cry,  and  we  all  draw  out  our  lines  to  give  him 
room.  At  last  he  is  wearied  out;  the  Doctor  draws 
him  to  the  surface,  and  he  lies  fully  exposed  to  view, 
a  prodigious  fellow.  He  has  given  up  entirely  and 
struggles  no  more.  Just  at  this  crisis,  the  hook  slips 
out  of  his  side  where  it  had  accidentally  caught,  and 
the  noble  fish  is  lost.  But  flat -back  rnagnus  don't 
know  he  is  loose.  There  he  lies,  resigned  to  his  fate. 
A  second  more,  he  wriggles  his  tail  and  darts  out  of 
sight  under  the  water.  There  is  a  general  outcry  of 
'disappointment  and  vexation.  But  all  we  have  to 
do  is  to  make  up  for  lost  time ;  so  we  throw  in  again, 
and  it  is  not  long  before  we  are  rewarded  for  our 


256  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

pains.  The  fish  we  are  catching  now  are  all  of  good 
size,  twelve  or  fourteen  inches  long,  and  upon  my 
word  they  do  pull  gallantly.  It  is  equal  almost  to 
trouting.  Billy  Ivvins  swears  that  the  flat-back  in 
this  hole  are  superior  to  any  other  in  the  river — 
they  are  of  pure  Castilian  blood,  game  and  mettle- 
some as  a  wild  horse  when  he  is  first  lassoed. 

"Is  that  the  cars?"  Yes,  it  is  the  train  from 
Lynchburg.  It  is  half -past  one  o'clock — high  time 
for  dinner.  And  while  the  roaring  of  the  train  is 
still  in  our  ears,  here  comes  Aunt  Lockey  from  the 
house,  with  a  heavy  basket,  little  Ada  staggering  be- 
hind her  under  the  weight  of  a  big  bucket  of  fresh 
spring  water.  An  old  plank  makes  a  good  dinner 
table ;  the  plates  and  dishes,  with  excellent  fried  ham, 
chicken  that  needs  only  a  little  salt,  sweet  potatoes, 
bread  and  sweet  pickles,  make  up  the  repast,  which 
we  devour  with  hearty  relish,  watching  our  corks  all 
the  time.  But  the  fish  are  too  well-bred  to  interrupt 
gentlemen  while  they  are  dining.  There's  not  a  sin- 
gle bite  until  we  are  through  with  onr  meal  and  have 
lighted  our  pipes.  Even  then  the  fish  trouble  us 
very  little.  Doubtless  they  are  taking  a  siesta,  for 
it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  fish  never  bite  well  from 
after  dinner  until  an  hour  or  two  before  sunset.  We 
wait  patiently.  The  slant  sunbeams  creep  around  the 
little  tree  to  our  left,  and  fall  upon  the  water  above 
the  pool. 

The  biting  commences  again,  but  I  am  chilled  and 
go  up  the  bank  to  walk  about  and  warm  myself.  As 
the  fish  are  tossed  up,  I  can  but  admire  them.  The 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  257 

"  flat-back,"  you  know,  is  called  "  sucker "  in  some 
parts  of  the  country,  and,  with  its  broad,  mottled, 
green  back,  its  large  fins  and  black  eyes,  makes  as 
pretty  a  fish  as  any  that  swim  in  our  waters.  It  is 
easily  caught,  if  you  have  patience.  The  mullet  is 
a  beautiful  fish.  Its  glistening  sides  of  silver  mail 
and  its  broad,  purple  fins,  are  a  delight  to  look  at. 
All  fish  are  beautiful,  on  account  of  their  clean, 
healthy  look;  but  these  we  are  catching  seem  pecu- 
liarly so.  What  unpolluted  blood  flows  in  their 
veins !  how  free  they  are  from  the  aches,  the  ills,  the 
slow,  consuming  diseases  of  human  kind  !  They  owe 
no  money,  buy  no  clothes,  pay  nothing  for  board, 
rent  no  houses,  are  never  taxed,  never  have  any  ac- 
counts at  the  dry-goods  stores,  are  never  troubled 
about  bonnets  for  their  wives,  or  schooling  for  their 
children,  own  no  land  and  no  negroes,  care  nothing 
about  old  Brown,  are  not  at  all  excited  about  the 
election  in  1860,  and  don't  have  to  get  up,  of  a  cold 
winter's  morning,  and  wash  their  faces  in  a  tin  pan. 
It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  drag  them  out  of  their 
homes  into  this  dirty  upper  world.  How  soon  their 
glory  departs,  their  lustre  fades !  Their  silver  coats 
are  soon  begrimed  with  dust,  and  even  their  round, 
undefended  eyes,  are  filled  with  it.  Pity,  pity,  they 
haven't  got  eye-lids.  I  declare  it  hurts  me  to  see 
them  flapping  vainly  to  get  back  into  the  water,  as 
they  lie  gasping  and  panting  on  the  bank.  And  how 
sorrowful  their  poor  mouths  look — did  you  ever  no- 
tice them? 

Another  name  for  the  nigger-knocker  is  hog-fish,, 
17 


258  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

and  it  is  by  far  the  ugliest  tenant  of  the  Virginia 
waters.  Cat-fish  are  sweet  and  pretty  compared  to 
nigger-knockers.  They  have  a  mean  poisonous  look. 
Their  heads  are  ragged  and  hideous  beyond  expres- 
sion, reminding  me  of  the  stump  of  a  thumb  after 
the  end  has  been  blown  off  by  a  pistol,  more  than 
any  thing  else  I  can  think  of. 

But  now  the  shades  are  deepening  fast ;  it  is  get- 
ting really  cold;  the  water,  with  its  dark  reflections, 
looks  like  a  wondrous  picture  in  Indian  ink.  We 
hear  the  dull  tinkle  of  the  bells,  as  the  cows  pace 
slowly  to  the  "  cuppen."  Still,  the  fish  bite.  We 
can  scarcely  see  our  corks,  but  we  are  loath  to  leave. 
Billy  Ivvins  hangs  a  monster  flat-back ;  he  pulls  like 
mad ;  as  he  rushes  to  and  fro  under  the  water,  the 
pole  bends  like  a  bow,  and  fairly  cracks  under  his 
struggles ;  but  Billy  Ivvins  knows  how  to  manage 
him.  At  last  he  is  completely  exhausted,  and 
struggles  no  more.  Cautiously,  slowly,  Billy  draws 
him  up ;  he  is  fairly  out  of  the  water,  a  glorious 
fellow,  eighteen  inches  long  at  the  very  least,  and 
hangs  as  still  as  death.  But  ere  his  tail  is  six  inches 
from  the  water,  the  treacherous  snood  snaps,  down 
he  drops,  and  is  gone  for  ever.  You  just  ought  to 
have  heard  Billy  Ivvins  swear.  I  have  heard  many 
men  curse,  such  as  congressmen,  hackdrivers,  and 
gamblers,  but  none  of  them  ever  equalled  Billy 
Ivvins  on  this  occasion — 

"No  ancient  devil, 

Plunged  to  the  chin,  when  burning  hot, 
Into  a  holy  water  pot ; 


FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX.  259 

Could  so  blaspheme,  or  fire  a  volley 
Of  oaths  so  dire  and  melancholy," 

as  Billy  I  wins  fired  when  that  snood  snapped  and 
that  flat-back  fell  back  into  the  Appomattox. 

But  now  we  are  compelled  to  leave.  "We  fix  up 
our  tackle  in  haste,  and  put  out  at  high  speed,  one  of 
the  party  carrying  the  mighty  string  of  flat-back, 
mullet,  and  nigger-knockers;  the  others  taking 
•charge  of  the  guns,  etc.  A  little  way  down  the  river 
bank,  we  discover  what  appears  to  be  a  bundle  of 
fodder  set  np  on  the  end  to  scare  the  fish  away  from 
three  or  four  poles  that  hang  over  the  water.  It 
proves  to  be  Uncle  Jim,  in  a  battered  wool  hat  and 
a  sun-cured  old  overcoat,  with  his  feet  wrapped  up  in 
ft  blanket  to  keep  them  warm.  The  old  fellow  has 
displayed  his  skill  by  catching  nearly  as  many  fish 
as  all  of  us  boys  together.  Adding  his  fish  to  our 
string,  we  set  forth  again  at  a  topping  pace,  to  start 
the  circulation,  which  has  become  stagnant  by  long 
sitting  on  the  beech  root.  Besides,  it  is  very  cold. 

By  the  time  we  reach  a  snug  little  bachelor  estab- 
lishment, the  stars  are  sparkling  in  the  skies,  and  we 
are  warm  as  toasts  from  the  rapid  two  mile  walk. 
Supper  is  soon  served.  We  partake  of  it  sparingly 
and  go  to  Farmville  to  hear  old  Joe  Sweeny.  We 
find  that  the  old  fellow  has  let  down;  but  he  is 
welcome  to  our  small  change  for  the  sake  of  what  he 
used  to  be  when  he  was  young  and  in  his  prime. 

After  the  concert  is  over  we  repair  to  the  Ran- 
dolph House,  take  a  good  big  drink  of  excellent  Bum- 
gardner — a  whiskey  that  is  said  to  have  power  almost 


260  FISHING  IN  THE  APPOMATTOX. 

to  raise  the  dead.  We  pay  our  respects  to  Messrs. 
Pry  or  and  Goode  (it  is  the  night  before  election  day), 
and  find  both  of  them  pretty  well  used  up,  and  accord- 
ingly leave  them  to  their  much  needed  rest.  We  re- 
turn to  the  bachelor  establishment,  and  about  eleven 
o'clock  sit  down  to  a  magnificent  flat-back  supper; 
and  we  enjoy  it  as  only  Appornatox  flat-back  fisher- 
men can  enjoy  it.  At  the  close  of  his  tenth  cup  of 
coffee,  Billy  Ivvins  looks  over  a  lofty  pile  of  flat-back 
bones,  and  gets  very  sick.  He  swears  that  flat-back 
is  the  greatest  eating  in  the  world.  He  wishes  he 
may  be  teetotally  dad-blasted  into  everlasting  dad- 
blamenation  if  they  ain't  superior  even  to  shadses. 
The  skulls  of  flat-back  parched  would  make  splendid 
coffee.  Flat-back  is  the  meat  of  all  meats  for  married 
men  to  eat.  He  intended  to  get  him  a  large  wagon 
and  fill  it  with  flat-back,  and  get  married  and  start  in 
the  morning  for  Texas,  etc.,  etc. 

And  so  ended  the  great  "ketchin'  of  flat-back,, 
mullet  and  nigger-knockers,  in  the  Appomattox." 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 


O!N"  my  return  to  Lynchburg,  all  the  doctors  with- 
out exception — Payne,  Williams,  Patterson, 
Gilmer,  Hobson,  Morris,  Langhorne,  the  Lathams, 
father  and  son,  the  elder  and  the  younger  Owen,  etc., 
etc. — welcomed  and  encouraged  me.  But  I  was  much 
too  sick  to  practice,  wandered  about  two  or  three  years 
in  search  of  health,  and  finally  settled  down  to 
journalism  as  my  vocation.  In  '59,  when  I  came  to 
Richmond  to  live,  it  was  Dr.  C.  Bell  Gibson  who 
told  me  I  would  always  find  a  plate  waiting  for  me 
at  his  table ;  and  it  was  Arthur  Peticolas,  whom  I  had 
known  intimately  in  Lynchburg,  who  was  a  constant 
visitor  to  my  room  at  night,  and  with  whom  I  gladly 
renewed  the  discussions  upon  art  and  poetry  which 
had  been  begun  years  before.  Though  no  longer  a 
member  of  the  profession,  I  received  from  all  the 
Richmond  physicians  with  whom  I  became  ac- 
quainted much  courtesy  and  kindness,  and  in  my 
sicknesses  from  time  to  time,  had  occasion  to  call  upon 
first  one  and  then  another  of  them  for  advice  and 
assistance,  which  they  promptly  rendered,  and  for 
which  I  am  their  debtor  to  this  day. 

But  I  must  not  forget  the  country  doctors.  Among 
them  I  remember  with  special  gratitude  and  affec- 
tion, Dr.  James  Dillon  of  Prince  Edward,  Dr. 
Gordon  of  Tappahannock,  Dr.  Cochran  of  Middle- 


262  A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 

burg,  and  Dr.  Edmond  Taliaferro  of  Orange.  If  I 
were  a  novelist  hunting  for  types  of  a  Virginia 
country  doctor,  I  could  not  go  amiss  among  the 
gentlemen  just  named.  What  worth,  what  modesty,, 
what  labor,  ill-paid  arid  often  unpaid,  what  bravery 
and  what  fidelity  to  high  trusts  is  theirs !  I  honor 
them  and  their  kind  with  an  honor  beyond  words. 
The  tall  form,  the  ruddy  face,  the  thin  grey  locks 
of  Dr.  Dillon,  how  familiar  and  how  welcome  they 
are,  and  have  been  for  ever  so  many  years,  to  the 
whole  country-side  near  Earmville.  I  was  with 
"Dr.  Jim"  in  his  quaint  old  house,  "Sandy  Ford,'' 
the  scene  of  boundless  hospitality  during  the  days  of 
the  Eandolphs,  on  one  of  those  terrific  nights  in  the 
winter  of  55-'6.  The  water  froze  in  the  pail  on 
the  hearth  beside  the  roaring  wood  fire,  that  was 
kept  up  all  night  long.  It  was  t,oo  cold  to  sleep  in 
any  comfort,  although  we  were  close  together  in  a 
bed  piled  with  blankets.  Again  and  again  the  doc- 
tor arose  and  went  to  the  fire  to  put  on  more  wood 
and  warm  his  back,  and  had  I  not  been  a  much 
younger  man,  and  ashamed,  I  too  would  have  gotten 
up  to  warm  my  own  back.  The  doctor  had  been  an 
invalid  for  weeks,  but  had  he  been  well  would  have 
responded  to  any  call  made  upon  him,  if  indeed  any 
one  could  have  ventured  to  go  for  medical  assistance 
through  such  a  frightful  storm.  Blessings  on  your 
frosty  pow,  Dr.  Jim,  and  long  may  you  live  to  jog 
through  sunshine  and  storm  along  the  woodland 
roads  of  Prince  Edward,  gladdening  many  hearts  by 
your  coming. 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS.  263 

Tossing  from  side  to  side  of  my  bed  in  an  agony 
of  unrest,  the  thick  saliva  pouring  into  my  mouth 
faster  than  I  could  expel  it,  and  almost  strangling 
me  (it  was  a  second  attack  of  parotitis)  Dr.  Gordon 
came  to  me,  and  with  half  a  grain  of  morphine  soon 
transported  me  into  the  heaven  of  perfect  repose. 
What  'a  relief  it  was,  and  how  my  heart  went  out  to 
him  in  thankfulness  !  On  many  other  occasions  has 
the  Dr.  administered  to  my  ailments,  and  much 
cause  have  I  to  be  grateful  to  him.  His  quiet  gentle 
manner  as  he  enters  the  sick  room,  his  habit  of  cross- 
ing his  legs,  twisting  his  pen-knife,  and  taking  his 
time  for  a  friendly  talk  with  you  after  the  pill  or 
powder  has  been  given — what  a  contrast  to  the  hur- 
ried visit  and  hasty  prescription  of  the  fashionable 
city  physician !  When  he  is  called  away,  no  man  in 
all  Essex  will  be  more  kindly  remembered  than  Dr. 
Thomas  Gordon  of  Tappahannock.  He  still  lives, 
and,  thank  heaven,  promises  to  live  many  a  long  year. 

One  must  be  a  bachelor  of  five  and  thirty,  and 
often  sick  in  his  solitary  room,  to  appreciate  fully  the 
comfort,  and  in  fact  the  pleasure,  of  being  sick  as  a 
married  man.  Many  pleasant  sicknesses  have  I  had 
since  my  marriage,  but  the  happiest  of  them  all  was 
one  of  the  longest  of  them  all — a  six  weeks  attack  of 
catarrh  at  Lichtield,  in  Orange  county.  During  the 
paroxysms  of  coughing  I  suffered  a  good  deal ;  at 
other  times  I  was  comparatively  free  of  pain,  and  able 
to  read  and  scribble  at  will.  My  good  wife  brought 
me  my  meals  to  a  nice  little  up-stairs  room,  warmed 
by  a  cosy  wood  fire.  Without,  all  was  cold  and  cheer- 


264:  A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 

less ; . within,  all  was  sweet  quietude  and  peace.  The 
world  with  its  sinfulness  and  its  cares  was  far  removed 
from  me.  I  wanted  never  to  go  back  to  it  again,  and 
would  fain  have  been  an  invalid  all  my  days  rather 
than  encounter  the  temptations  and  troubles  of  life 
again.  I  look  back  upon  that  sickness  as  a  glimpse, 
all  too  brief,  of  heaven.  Dr.  Edmond  Taliaferro  at- 
tended me.  His  visits  were  not  numerous,  but  enough 
to  impress  indelibly  upon  my  memory  his  quick 
bright  eye,  his  perfect  healthfulness  ("  sound  as  a  nut " 
is  truer  of  him  than  of  any  man  I  ever  knew),  and 
his  excellence  as  a  man  and  a  physician.  How  much 
good  that  admirable  little  man  has  done,  and  how 
poorly  paid  he  has  often  been,  there  is  no  telling. 
From  the  bed  in  which  I  now  lie  I  send  him  greet- 
ing, God-speed  and  a  thousand  kind  wishes. 

And  what  shall  I  say  about  that  dear  old  doctor 
whose  picture  in  my  photograph  album  I  looked  at 
but  yesterday,  recalling  the  while  the  sad,  happy  mem- 
ories of  Middleburg  ?  Hale  and  hearty,  the  picture  of 
strength,  able  to  buffet  all  the  mountain  storms  that 
come,  his  joyous  laugh  comes  to  me  over  the  years 
that  have  lapsed  since  we  parted,  and  I  can  see  him 
plainly  in  his  front  porch,  with  his  grandchildren 
playing  around  him.  He  and  his  wife  were  with 
us  that  night  when  God  called  away  the  little  boy 
who  was  the  delight,  the  splendor  and  the  hope  of 
our  lives,  and  he  was  with  us  that  bright  July  morn- 
ing when  God  sent  us  another  son,  "  the  sweetest  boy 
in  the  world,"  as  I  called  him  in  his  babyhood,  and 
often  call  him  now,  albeit  he  is  six  years  old  and 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS.  265 

over.  This  pulse  in  my  wrist  must  be  beating  very 
slowly  when  I  cease  to  remember  with  admiration 
and  affection  "  Uncle-  William  "  and  "  Aunt  Kate." 
Heaven  send  them  a  sweet  sunset  before  the  cloud- 
less morning  that  awaits  them  hereafter. 

Ah !  Doctor,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  like.  I 
would  like  to  present  you  with  a  golden  backgam- 
mon box  and  a  set  of  diamond  men,  and  allow  you  to 
beat  me  one — just  one — time  in  your  life.  It  would 
make  you  so  happy. 

In  "Abraham  Page  "  or  "  What  I  know  about  Ben 
Eccles,"  I  forget  which,  there  is  the  finest  tribute  to 
the  country  doctor  that  I  have  seen  in  any  language. 
But  how  is  it  that  the  theme  never  awakened  the 
muse  of  Goldsmith  or  Shenstone  or  the  pencil  of  a 
genre  artist  of  the  first  order.  The  rusty  long-tailed 
overcoat  tucked  well  under  the  legs,  the  tall  napless 
Iiat  drawn  down  over  the  eyes,  the  ears  protected  by 
a  comfort  of  fiery  red  from  cold,  the  beard  white 
with  snow  or  sleet,  the  compressed  lips,  the  yellow 
leggings  tied  with  green  list,  the  thick  yarn  socks, 
knitted  by  some  grateful  hand,  covering  the  boots, 
the  gray  saddle-blanket  peeping  out  from  under  the 
sheep  skin  covered  saddle,  the  black,  medical  sad- 
dle-bags, slick  with  long  using,  the  faithful  horse 
plodding  through  frozen  mire  or  plashing  through 
the  puddles  and  brooks — here  are  the  elements  for 
a  dark  winter  day — but  better  still,  these  same 
figures  of  horse  and  rider  dimly  descried  through 
the  thick  darkness  of  the  winter's  night,  when  the 
fierce  icy  gusts  are  pouring  through  the  mountain 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS . 

passes,  bending  the  naked  trees  by  the  road  side,  and 
almost  beating  down  the  gray -haired  rider,  who  must 
trust  to  his  sure-footed  steed ;  for  who  can  see  the 
way  on  such  a  night  in  the  midst  of  such  a  storm  ? 
And  then  the  entrance  of  the  doctor  into  the  sick 
chamber  lighted  up  by  the  log  fire,  the  sick  woman 
in  the  old-fashioned  bed  with  valence  and  teaster 
turning  her  hollow  eyes  to  him  with  an  ineffable 
look  of  gladness  and  of  hope. 

What  must  be  the  thought  of  the  good  old  doctor 
as  he  passes  in  through  the  tempest  and  the  horror 
of  thick  darkness,  often  unattended  and  alone,  oftener 
still  knowing  that  he  can  never  be  paid  even  a  pit- 
tance for  all  he  is  braving  and  enduring!  Memories 
of  his  student-life  come  to  him,  and  of  his  early 
triumphs  and  failures  in  practice,  of  his  first  mar- 
ried days,  of  his  own  sick  child  left  at  home,  and  of 
the  cozy  chamber  where  his  wife  awraits  his  uncer- 
tain coming.  Despite  the  rushing  blast  and  the 
roaring;  mountain  torrent  he  is  fording,  there  come 

O  O ' 

to  him  the  cries  of  infants  he  has  ushered  into  this- 
world  of  pain,  the  last  long  suspiration  and  the  wide 
ghastly  yawn  of  the  dying,  the  shrieks  of  bereaved, 
women,  and  the  suppressed  tumultuous  sob  of  stricken, 
men — these  come  to  him  as  he  courageously  breasts 
biting  wind  and  freezing  rain  to  reach  his  patient. 
In  the  cold  gray  dawn,  his  mission  ended  and  the 
sufferer  relieved,  he  sallies  forth.  The  winds  are 
still,  the  wide  expanse  of  snow,  unbroken  yet  by  hoof 
or  foot,  stretches  over  the  miles,  no  longer  long,  that 
lie  between  him  and  his  home.  As  he  beats  onward. 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS.  26T 

the  first  smoke  rises  from  the  peaceful  homesteads,, 
and  he  hurries  along  to  get  his  bright  welcome  and 
his  wife's  kiss,  to  snatch  a  breakfast  and  again  to 
mount  his  horse  and  plod  his  daily  round  through 
snow  and  slush.  And  this  is  life  to  the  country  doc- 
tor and  his  fellows. 

Brave  hearts,  noble  gentlemen,  benefactors  seldom 
fully  requited,  in  my  summer  trips  away  from  the 
city  I  never  pass  one  of  you  without  an  inward  bow- 
ing of  the  head  in  reverence  and  the  uttering  of  a 
silent  benediction  upon  you.  Ye  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  and  your  reward  is  assured  in  the  bright  here- 
after. 

Of  late  years  our  physician  has  been  a  sort  of 
Quinbus  Flestrin,  or  man-mountain,  who  has  done 
so  much  for  me  and  mine  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
me  to  abuse  him  violently.  It  is  not  in  the  nature 
of  a  weakling  like  myself  to  look  with  complacency 
upon  any  man  who  is  heaped  up  and  running  over 
with  health.  The  Egyptians  wrapped  their  dead  in 
endless  windings  of  cloth,  but  nature  has  bandaged 
Dr.  Coleman  with  such  great  ropes  and  coils  of 
bodily  well-being  that  he  may  be  regarded  as  a  real 
mummy  of  health.  Disease  might  feel  for  his  vitals 
for  a  century  to  no  purpose,  and  I  should  think  that 
Death  himself,  after  leveling  his  spear  at  him,  would 
take  a  second  look,  and  saying,  "It's  no  use;  that 
fellow  is  too  thickly  health-plated,"  pass  on  to  the 
other  side.  Twice  a  day  for  many  long  months  have- 
I  seen  that  strong  Roman  head  enter  my  doorway y 
and  once  a  day  for  weeks  has  he,  on  other  occasions,. 


268  A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 

visited  me  or  my  children.  His  ponderous  tread  and 
his  portentous  door-slam  are  familiar  to  us  all.  I 
should  like  to  praise  his  skill,  to  tell  about  his  art  of 
winning  the  love  of  women  and  children,  and  the 
charm  of  his  strong  presence  in  the  sick  room,  but 
may  not  trust  myself.  He  has  just  delivered  me 
from  the  pangs  of  diphtheria,  and  I  might  overdo 
the  thing.  Fain  would  I  hope  that  I  have  done 
with  him  for  a  good  long  while  at  least ;  but  I  suspect 
that  it  will  be  another  case  of  Michael  and  the  dragon 
contending  for  the  body  of  Moses,  and  that,  after  a 
sufficient  number  of  brilliant  victories,  the  dragon 
will  at  last  get  the  better  of  Michael  Coleman.* 

City  physicians  undergo  less  hardships  and  fatigue, 
but  are  subject  oftentimes  to  a  heavier  weight  of  re- 
sponsibility, than  most  of  their  country  brethren. 
True,  they  have  more  and  better  appliances,  and  can 
generally  call  in  consultation  when  needed  more 
ability  than  the  country  doctor  has  at  command ;  but 
endemics  and  epidemics  sweep  over  the  cities  more 
often  than  the  country,  the  ghastlier  forms  of  schirrus 
and  fungus  are  more  prevalent  there,  and  men  of 
the  greatest  distinction,  flocking  to  the  cities,  have 
more  frequently  to  be  treated.  Moreover,  the  city 
physician  is  much  more  critically  and  jealously 
watched  than  his  country  brother.  On  the  other 

9  Alas  !  the  patient  and  the  physician  were  but  a  short 
time  parted.  Dr.  Coleman  was  himself  declining  when  he 
ministered  to  the  sufferer  in  his  final  illness,  and  three  months 
after  the  last  sad  scene  of  Dr.  Bagby's  life,  he  too  was  taken, 
.and  left  a  city  in  tears. 


A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS.  269 

hand,  the  latter  has  too  often  to  rely  wholly  on  him- 
self in  cases  of  the  greatest  emergency,  as  in  aceouch- 
ments  and  capital  cases  of  surgery.  But  I  will  not 
pretend  to  strike  the  balance  between  them.  God 
knows  that  both  classes  have  a  hard  enough  time. 
For  nothing  in  this  world  would  I  undertake  the 
labor  or  responsibility  of  either  of  them.  Fact  is, 
I  couldn't;  it  is  not  in  me,  or  anywhere  about 
me. 

To  country  and  to  city  doctors  I  owe  more  than  I 
can  ever  repay.  I  think  that  in  this  world  it  happens 
not  seldom  that  they  who  would  be  princes  in  gen- 
erosity, and  give  and  give  forever,  are  not  only  de- 
barred from  giving,  but  are  doomed  forever  to  re- 
ceive ;  and  I  believe  that  in  the  great  book  of  the 
recording  angel  there  are  pages  upon  pages  filled 
with  the  credits  of  gratitude  which  found  no  voice 
for  very  shame  of  mere  words  of  requital,  and  be- 
cause the  fitting  deed  could  not  go  hand  in  hand  with 
the  warm  will  welling  up  from  a  profoundly  thank- 
ful heart. 

Ah  !  gentlemen,  had  I  my  way  there  would  not  be 
wanting  some  large  silver  watches  and  some  moder- 
ately high-priced  snuff-boxes  for  a  good  many  of 
you.  But  in  earnest,  if  I  were  a  millionaire,  I  do 
not  believe  that  all  the  stinginess  incident  to  that  af- 
fliction could  keep  me  from  setting  rich  men  an  ex- 
ample of  honor  done  to  those  that  richly  deserve  to 
be  honored.  Carrington  should  clear  for  me  the 
most  spacious  room  in  the  Exchange.  It  should  be 
most  beautifully  and  becomingly  decorated.  There 


"270  A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 

would  I  gather  the  brightest  men  and  the  loveliest 
women  in  the  land,  and  my  doctors  from  far  and 
near  should  be  there.  At  a  fitting  hour  I  would 
command  the  peace,  and  then  some  silver-tongued 
Kciley  or  Stringfellow,  gifted  in  speech,  should  say 
the  splendid  words  that  ought  to  be  said  in  praise  of 
your  noble  profession.  Then  the  sweetest  girl  in  all 
Virginia — a  doctor's  daughter  most  likely — should  in 
the  eyes  of  that  brilliant  assembly  pin  to  your  lapels 
the  badge  (newly  instituted  by  myself)  of  the 
Knightly  Order  of  the  Golden  Pill.  No,  I  do  but 
jest.  She  should  decorate  you  with  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  True  Honor,  in  that  it  would  be  given,  not 
to  the  slayers,  but  to  the  savers  of  mankind.  And 
then,  oh  then,  there  should  be  a  supper,  such  a  sup- 
per— a  supper  of  the  gods,  an  Olympian  feast  com- 
pounded for  the  special  delectation  of  doctors,  from 
which  not  one  of  you  should  rise  till  he  felt  too  rich 
to  accept  a  cent  from  A.  T.  Stewart  or  Win.  B.  As- 
tor.  And  then  I  would  consider  myself  moderately 
even  with  a  few  of  you. 

However  ill-paid  and  often  unpaid  physicians  may 
be,  they  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  emi- 
nence and  success  in  almost  every  other  calling  and 
profession  is  a  selfish  success  limited  in  its  good  ef- 
fects to  the  man  and  his  immediate  family ;  whereas 
in  medicine  great  success  is  based,  necessarily,  upon 
great  and  wide-spread  beneficence.  To  even  moder- 
ately distinguished  medical  men,  indeed  to  all  but  the 
very  meanest  and  most  worthless  doctors,  there  must 
-come  thrills  of  pleasure  so  supreme  that  only  the 


A  PIECE  AEOCT  DCCrOKS.  271 

-minister  of  the  gospel  who  feels  that  he  has  been  the 
instrument  of  saving  a  soul  can  hope  to  taste  a 
pleasure  at  all  comparable  with  it. 

Faithful  keepers  of  the  great  seal  of  family  se- 
crets, trusty  wardens  of  the  ineffably  precious  health 
of  our  loved  ones,  silent  and  pitying  witnesses  of  hu- 
man suffering  and  human  weakness,  who  shall  rightly 
tell  your  worth,  and  with  what  patent  of  nobility 
shall  ye  be  fitly  honored!  Statistics  show  that,  man 
for  man,  your  profession  has  fewer  culprits  than  any 
other  whatsoever.  The  simple  figures,  unfeeling  and 
unflattering,  bear  testimony  to  the  lofty  virtue  of 
your  calling.  It  is  the  hope  of  humanity,  and  there 
is  reason  for  the  hope,  that  the  day  will  come  when 
there  shall  be  no  more  great  lawyers,  for  there  shall 
be  no  more  litigation ;  when  there  shall  be  no  great 
-warriors,  because  wars  shall  have  ceased ;  and  when 
even  the  need  for  great  statesmen  shall  have  passed, 
since  mankind  will  have  outlived  the  infirmities  that 
demand  legislative  correction  or  restraint.  But  that 
day  can  never  come  on  this  earth  when  men  will  not 
die.  A  healthy  race,  obedient  to  the  laws  of  right 
living,  will  require  few  doctors  (doctors  truly,  that 
their  chief  functions  will  then  be  the  teaching  of  san- 
itary principles,  and  the  mode  of  life  demanded  for 
the  highest  physical  development) ;  but  these  few 
will  be  crowned  with  the  laurel  that  once, rested  only 
upon  the  brow  of  the  soldier,  and  with  the  bays  that 
were  reserved  solely  for  the  jurist  and  the  statesman. 

The  mind  makes  many  pictures,  and  this  is  one 
that  often  delights  me.  In  the  realm  where  there 


272  A  PIECE  ABOUT  DOCTORS. 

will  be  no  use  for  doctors,  but  where  many  doctors 
shall  be,  it  shall  come  to  pass  that  beside  the  river  of 
living  waters,  and  under  the  trees  whose  leaves  are  for 
the  healing  of  the  nations,  each  upon  his  little  knoll 
of  emerald  sward,  the  good  doctors  of  this  world 
shall  be  seated.  Celestial  airs,  borne  from  the  trem- 
bling wires  of  harps  attuned  to  praise  the  Great 
Physician,  and  mingled  with  the  divine  odors  of 
amaranth  and  asphodel,  shall  pass  by  on  the  soft, 
pulsing  breeze.  And  around  each  doctor  shall  be  the 
host,  small  or  great  as  the  case  may  be,  of  them  to 
whom  he  ministered  on  earth.  They  shall  press  for- 
ward with  lips  no  longer  dumb,  with  hands  no  longer 
afraid  to  tell  by  their  clasp  what  even  the  lips  might 
not  like  to  say,  and  with  eyes  blazing  full  and  warm 
from  the  unmasked  soul.  And  from  lips  and  hands  and 
eyes  shall  come  measureless  requital.  And  the  little 
ones,  the  little  ones  whose  first  wail  and  whose  last  sigh 
the  good  doctors  heard,  they  shall  come  with  purest 
kisses  and  cherubic  palms,  with  such  sweet  thanks 
and  caressing  as  only  the  al ways-angels  know.  And 
then — the  picture  falls  softly  and  slowly  away. 


MEEKINS'S  TWINSES. 


DEDIKATID. 

To  the  Hapy  Man  that  aint  Got  but  One  Chile,  &  Him  growed 

Up,  and  Doin  uv  a  Good  Bisnis  in  a  Far  Distant  Lan', 

whar  He  kant  be  Heered  a  cryin  in  the  Kite  fur 

His  Bottil, 

I  DEDIKATE  THIS  Wu  K — 
This  Brocher,  as  they  says  in  Frentch. 

M.  ADDUMS. 

BABIS  in  ginrul  is  bald-heded,  bo-leged  disturb- 
ers uv  the  peece.  They  cums  into  this  worl' 
frownin  horrid,  fists  doubled  up,  red  as  peper,  hot  as 
jinjer,  and  hongry  as  hogs.  You  got  to  'ten  to  um — 
got  to  drap  all  biznis  and  'ten  to  um  then  and  thar, 
or  elts  you'll  heer  from  um  erly  and  ofting.  The 
nuss  lanches  um  into  life  with  a  dram  uv  sum  kind, 
and  then  wunders  they  luvs  whiskey  when  they  has 
growd  up. 

But  twinses  is  misteyus  vizitatins  uv  Providens ;  a 
urthquake  in  2  colyums,  the  rite  and  lef  wings  uv  a 
hurrykane  that  thar  aint  no  accountin  fur.  They 
cums  like  claps  uv  live  thunder  out'n  a  clere  sky  in 
the  midil  uv  the  day  or  nite  (they  aint  a  keering 
which),  and  konetirnates  the  naberhood.  Nobody 
aint  never  pepared  fur  um,  and  thar  is  a  rusliin  2 
and  fro  uv  doctors,  misses  and  wimmin  that  shakes 
18 


274  MEEKINS'S  TWINSES. 

the  chimblys  and  jars  the  whole  visinty.  A  feerful 
tiem! 

They  fetches  no  bagige,  not  a  rag,  not  a  blame 
thing,  not  even  a  swaller-tale  cote  and  a  standin  col- 
ler ;  but  they  cums  to  stay.  Thar  is  much  borryin 
uv  klothes — it  takes  nuf  dry  goods  to  set  up  a  firm 
uv  twinses  as  to  stok  a  good  size  Brod  St.  sto — and 
you've  got  to  opin  a  milk  depo  and  free  bodin  hous 
on  the  spot,  lookin  fur  yo'  pay  in  a  nuther  and  a  beter 
woiT.  Becoz  twinses  has  but  vage  idees  uv  setlin  bills. 

Meny  wimmin  arives  at  yo'  manshun,  and  tliar  is 
much  miratin.  The  po'  men  fur  sevrul  bloks  aroun 
gethers  on  the  cornders  of  the  strete  and  wunders  to 
eche  uther  if  twinses  is  ketchin,  like  mezils  and  chikin 
pok.  Thar  minds  is  onesy.  They  goes  to  potheker- 
ries  to  git  sum  intmint  again  the  things. 

But  taint  no  use,  no  manner  uv  use.  Kwinine 
nor  brimstone  nor  kerosiv  sublimit,  nor  nuthin  knowd 
to  man,  can't  kepe  um  off.  Twinses  is  misteyus 
things,  and  thar  is  no  a  kountin  fur  um  one  way  nor 
the  uther.  Hew  Blar,  the  drugger,  can't  put  up 
nuthin  to  fend  um  off,  nor  Tom  Doswil,  with  all  his 
expeyunse,  can't  inshure  um.  If  they  ar  a  cumin,  they 
ar  a  cumin ;  and  if  they  aint  a  cumin  all  creashum  can't 
hurry  um  up.  Twinses  is  the  most  obstnit  and  opin- 
yunated  kattil  I  know. 

Thar  is  a  nuther  misteyus  thing  'bout  twinses. 
Them  that  wants  um  can't  have  um  no  how — thar 
is  men  at  backgamon  that  never  flings  dublets,  no 
matter  how  they  ratle  the  box  and  blow  on  it  for 
luck ;  and  them  that  don't  want  um,  and  kin  hardly 


275 

turn  roun  thout  treddin  on  childun,  has  um  shure. 
Here  they  cum  a  hoopin  and  a  holrin.  Now  me  and 
Tom  Cuckpotrik  is  the  very  pattun  uv  men  for 
twinses — was  cut  and  dride  you  may  say  to  be  the 
fathers  uv  twinses,  but  nary  a  twin  hav  cum  these 
30  yeer,  tho'  we  has  bin  dyin  fur  um.  On  the  uther 
hand,  look  at  Meekins;  uv  all  and  uv  all  humins! 
Meekins — but  mo'  anon.  No;  twinses  is  misteyus. 
To  the  rich  man  childun  cum  one  at  a  tiem,  like 
balls  down  the  trof  t  uv  a  ten-pin  ally ;  but  to  the  po 
man  they  curns 

" 2  by  2, 

Like  the  elifint  and  the  kangeroo." 

Twinses  is  like  the  pistuns  or  the  walkin  beam  uv 
a  stemebote — when  you  lays  one  down  you  takes  the 
uther  one  up ;  and  when  they  both  opins  thar  skape- 
pipes  and  squalls  at  the  same  tiem,  why,  lettin  off 
steme  is  a  Quaker  metin  to  it.  F'yar  well,  vane 
worl',  I'm  a  gwine  home!  No  you  aint — you're  a 
gwine  to  'ten  to  them  twinses,  'ten  to  nuthin  but 
them,  if  you  don't  want  the  hous  to  cum  down ;  and 
&  plezant  tiem  you'll  hav  uv  it.  You  may  talk  to 
me  'bout  Gypchun  bondige,  but  a  m uther  at  ded  uv 
nite  wrestlin  with  two  bawlin  squallin  twinses — one 
holrin  to  see  if  his  holrin  aint  louder  holrin  than  the 
holrin  uv  the  uther  one  holrin — a  muther  endurin 
11  v  that  bondige  sturs  my  sympathies  mo'n  the  Gyp- 
chuns  and  Izralites  combined. 

A  quare  thing  is  that  the  man  gits  all  the  kredit 
fur  twinses,  while  the  woman  that  has  to  tote  the 


276 

hevy  eend  uv  the  log  all  the  tiem,  don't  git  nun. 
Folks  is  inklined  to  blame  her,  and  tell  her,  "  no  mo 
uv  that,  now."  But  the  man  puts  on  his  hat  and 
walks  4th  with  a  ar  uv  modist  pride,  like  a  rich  man 
handin  roun  the  plate  fur  the  first  tiem  in  church. 
"  I  don't  take  no  kredit  fur  this,"  he  kinder  seems  to 
say,  "  I  reely  don't,  but  still  I  want  to  git  the  kredit 
all  the  saim.  Taint  evry  body  has  twinses,  and 
then  is  umbil  bout  it  like  me."  And  they  tell  me 
thar  is  wimmin  that  actilly  is  envus  and  jellus  uv 
wimmin  that  has  twinses,  and  wood  fain  git  the  resipe 
if  thar  was  one.  Well,  thar  is  childun  that  brags 
'bout  bein  sicker  than  uther  childun,  and  its  a  twisted 
sort  uv  a  worl'  we  liv  in  enyway.  I  don't  understan 
it'  no  way — nor  I  don't  ever  hope  to.  It  gits  me — 
got  me  long  ago. 

The  last  obzurvashun  I  got  to  make  'bout  twinses 
ar  this — they  kin  do  mo  kryin  to  the  minit,  and  kiver 
a  squar  inch  quicker  and  thicker,  with  bawl  and 
squall,  than  any  other  livin  thing  exsept  a  Linchbug 
ockshuneer  uv  lugs. 

These  few  remox  is  drord  4th  by  Meekins.  Uv  all 
and  uv  all — but  I'm  a  comin  to  that  dreckly.  Peter 
Meekins  is  my  naber — our  back  lots  jins.  He  is  the 
wevil-eatinest  man  I  know.  Somthin  is  always  the 
matter  with  his  durn  tung,  and  from  gum-biles  to 
corns  thar  aint  nuthin  he  dont  hav,  and  keep  on  havin 
it.  Dispepsy  is  his  stanby,  and  when  he  aint  got 
that,  he  fills  up  the  chinx  with  dipthery.  He  can't 
barly  walk,  becoz  he's  got  the  f  urtogo.  Things  wont 
gee  with  him,  so  he's  always  in  a  state  uv  wo.  Uv 


MEEKINS'S  TWINSES.  277 

all  and  uv  all.  He  takes  a  melunkoly  vew.  This 
worl'  looks  to  him  like  a  mixter  uv  misry,  blaein  and 
and  lamp-black.  Uv  all  humins  !  I  kinnot  understan 
it.  Thar  aint  mo'n  enuf  uv  him  to  make  a  do-mat, 
he  is  very  shucky  and  shaky,  and  is  fraziled  out  at 
his  edgis  into  somthin  that  ansers  as  hed,  arms  and 
legs.  Now  uv  all  and  uv  all  humin  beins  who  shood 
hav  twinses  but  this  same  Meekins.  It's  a  fac,  by 
gum !  and  it  jist  knox  me  down,  you  know.  I  aint 
fetch  breth  good  since  I  heerd  it. 

My  wife  must  uv  told  me,  bat  my  mind  hav  bin  so 
•ockqupide  with  politix  that  I  disremembered  it  till 
the  uther  day  when  I  met  him  on  the  strete.  He 
were  very  sadd.  His  chin  wiggled  and  his  nose 
wobbled,  he  were  so  very  sadd. 

"  In  the  name  uv  mizry,"  says  I,  "  Meekins,  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Ah!"  he  says,  groanin,  and  the  water  gethered 
in  his  eyes. 

"  How  is  yo  drotted  tung,  now  ?"  I  says. 

"  Taint  that,"  says  he,  and  the  teers  cum  a  rollin 
down  his  holler  cheex,  and  his  nose  trimbled. 

"Tell,  tell  me  quick,"  I  says;  "  I  feel  so  sorry  fur 
you,  and  I  want  to  do  sumthin  fur  you  rite  away." 

"  Well,"  he  says,  in  a  vois  that  went  to  my  very 
hart,  "I  were — I  were  took  down  with  the  twinses 
'bout  3  month  ago,  and  bin  very  lo  ever  sinse." 

"What!"  I  ixclaimed,  "you?  uv  all  and  uv  all, 
you,  got  twinses?  Giv  me  yo'  han!"  and  I  grabed 
him  to  kongratulate  him. 

But  I  heerd  sumthin  like  krokry  crackin  inside  uv 


278  MEEKINS'S  TWINSES, 

him,  and  feerin  he  wood  cum  to  peeces  in  my  han,  I 
let  him  go. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "they  has  lit  down  upon  me  in 
my  ole  age,  and  they  is  hevy."  And  he  weept. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  I  says,  "Uv  all  and  uv  all— 
this  beats  bobtail.  Gearls  uv  corse  ? " 

"No,"  he  says,  sorrerful,  "two  uv  as  fine  a  boy  as- 
ever  swollered  katnip." 

"And  you  a  cry  in  'bout  that  ?"  says  I. 

"Two  nusses,"  he  says,  "two  kribs,  two  sets  uv — 

uv — uv  everything — two •."  And  he  sobbed 

— he  actilly  did. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  livety  lad  (much  lively  'bout  him), 
cheer  up,"  I  says. 

But  he  wood'n  cheer  a  bit. 

"Two  baby  carriges,  two  par  uv  shoes,  two  soots 
uv  klothes,  two  everything,  too  much !  too  much  !  too 
much!"  And  he  farly  boohood. 

Says  I, "  Meekins,  fur  goodniss  sake  don't  giv  way 
so — you'll  bust  the  breechin  uv  yo  very  soul,  if  you 
kepe  on  that  a  way." 

But  he  kep  on,  and  throwin  his  face  down  into  his 
hands,  said  in  a  pashun  uv  teers : 

"  Dubl  tile  and  dubil  trubil, 
Childun  bile  and  babis  bubbil." 

I  kin  stan  a  good  deal,  but  my  temper  giv  way  at 
this.  Says  I,  "  You  inf urnil  old  son  uv  a  fopensapeny, 
if  you  don't  stop  howlin  here  in  the  strete  in  brord 
day  lite  'bout  nuthin  but  twinses,  I'll  ketch  you 
by  the  nap  uv  yo  neck,  fling  you  into  the  middil 


MEEKIN'S  TWINSES.  279 

uv  Mill's  garding,  and  leave  you  thar,  a  mass  uv 
fragments  for  boys  to  fling  at  kats  with." 

This  stopt  him.  "Ah !"  he  says,  "Ah !  this  ar  a 
worl'  uv  much  wind  on  the  stummick,  and  skeersly 
nuthin  in  the  breeches  pocket."  And  with  that  he 
shufild  off  his  mortal  kile  in  the  dreckshun  uv  his 
own  house.  I  went  to  mine,  madd,  madd  with  a 
doub'l  "  d."  And  I  says  to  my  wife : 

"  Did  you  know  old  Meekins  had  twinses  ?" 

"  Know  it  ?"  she  says,  "  didn't  I  tell  you  the  very 
day  they  was  borned  ?" 

"May  be  you  mout,"  I  says;  "but  my  mind  hav 
bin  so  gammed  and  glued  up  with  politix  and  Re- 
tunrin  Bodes  that " 

" you  bored  me  every  tiem  you  returned  home 

till  I  wish  them  bodes,  as  you  call  um,  was  nailed 
over  your  mouth." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "What  doo  you  think  uv  it?" 

That  were  the  wrongest  questun  that  ever  I  axed 
in  all  my  life.  It  let  down  the  tale-bode  uv  her 
naterally  lerge  tinnier  cart  of  elloquense,  and  she 
drownded  me  then  and  thar. 

"  Think  uv  it  ?"  she  skreakt.  "  Think  uv  it  ?  Its 
the  outrageousest,  owdashusest  peece  uv  impertinense 
that's  been  peppetrated  in  my  naberhood  in  40  odd 
year.  Its  a  sin  and  a  sham,e,  and  a  shokin,  overwhel- 
min  skandil,  that  pepil  pretendin  to  be  desent  shood 
act  in  that  way.  Genteel  pepil,  like  sum  I  know, 
don't  hav  no  twinses — they've  got  mo  regard  fur 
sersiety  than  to  have  um.  But  I  know  these  Meek- 
inses  uv  old.  They  had  um  a  puppus — a  puppus," 


280 

— stompin  her  foot  and  drappin  her  nittin — "  jist  to 
git  into  notis  and  git  some  good  things  to  eat.  And 
mo  things  has  cum  to  the  Meekinses  since  them 
twinses  was  borned  than  I  got  pashunce  to  tell  about. 
Bread,  cake,  pies,  puddins,  breakfasts,  dinners,  appils, 
oranges,  prunes,  ducks,  potridges,  Mallegy  grapes — 
thar's  old  Meekins  a  eatin  sum  this  very  minit ." 

Shure  nuf  there  was  old  Meekins  settin  by  his 
cellar  dore  a  doin  sum  uv  the  dolefullest  chawin  you 
ever  see. 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  a  delibrit,  depe-lade  plan 
to  git  notyriety  and  rise  in  sersiety.  But  they  couldn 
deseeve  me, — no  !  I  never  incouraged  twinses,  and 
never  wil.  They  gits  no  custard  and  thin  biskit  from 
Ms  house,  nor  they  never  wont."  And  then  her 
wurds  duv-taled  and  run  into  one  nuther  that  fast 
that  I  couldn  make  out  nuthin  she  said — nuthin  but 
"Jib  jib  jib — jab  jab  jab — jibjab  jibjab  jibjab — jibber 
jabber  jibber  jabber  jibber  jabber — whing  whang  fing 
fang  bing  bang  ding  dang  ling  lang  ping  pang  ting 
tang  ring  rang — r-r-r-r — attertatterclattersplatter." 

Whew !  I  had  heered  of  a  heated  turm,  but  here 
was  a  heated  turmigint  uv  the  wust  kind  with  a  ven- 
junce.  Jodge  !  she  just  did  leeve  me  the  top  uv  my 
hed,  and  that  were  all.  I  were  thankful  fur  that,  be- 
coz  I  see  how  it  were  in  a  flash — the  old  'oman  were 
black  in  the  face  with  jellus  envy  uv  the  po'  littil 
aflickted  Mrs.  Meekins,  as  good  a  woman  as  her  hus- 
band is  no  count. 

I  riz. 

"Madum!"  says  I,  drawin  myself  up  to  my  fool 


281 

hight.  "  Madum !"  I  says  in  tones  nv  sopesuds  and 
thunder.  "  Madum  !  taint  no  use,  no  erthly  use.  I 
aint  Aberham"  and  stoopin  down  and  pokin  my  face 
into  hern,  "nor  you  aint  Sary,  neither.  So  shet 
rite  up !" 

She's  60  last  grass  if  she's  a  day,  and  got  Irish 
blud  in  her  too,  but  she  did'n  even  open  her  lips. 
She  snifft  me  down  with  kontempt  and  konsintrated 
venum  that  druv  me  spang  out'n  the  hous,  and  I 
foun  myself  in  the  back  poche,  holrin  at  the  pitch,  tar 
and  turpentime  uv  my  vois,  "gimme  ar!  gimme  ar! 
fur  mersy's  sake  gimme  ar !"  fur  I  were  neerly  ded, 
that  whurlwind  uv  wurds  had  tuk  my  breth  away  so. 

Old  Meekins's  cook,  Lizer,  a  likely  woman,  cum 
out'n  the  kitchin  to  see  what  were-  the  matter.  I 
recken  she  thot  I  were  distrackted,  but  old  Meekins 
didn  evin  turn  his  hed,  lie  were  so  bizzy  with  his 
Mallegy  grapes. 

My  son  Floojins,  my  yungest  chile,  'bout  nine  yere 
old  goin  on  ten,  and  a  good  boy,  tho'  I  say  it — Floo- 
gins  had  heerd  his  muther  what  she  said,  and  folrin 
me  into  the  back  poche,  went  down  the  steps,  say  in 
as  he  went  by, 

"  Doggon  my  skin  uv  kats !  I'll  fix  him." 

With  that  he  began  hunting  roun  the  yard  till  he 
diskivered  a  rusty  old  pad-lock,  and  takin  good  aim 
at  Meekins,  he  let  fly,  and  by  the  livins  !  he  presto- 
vetoed  him  off 'n  the  face  of  the  erth.  He  jest  blotted 
him  rite  out.  Thar  were  the  cheer  he  set  in,  thai* 
were  his  hat  and  sum  few  skatrin  grapes,  but  Meek- 
ins  was  nowhar.  Floojins  had  wiped  him  into  thin 


282 

air.  I  stood  deff  and  dum  with  astonishment,  for 
Wyman  hisself  never  played  a  trick  equl  to  that. 

But  bimeby,  ten  minits  by  the  wotch,  here  cum 
old  Meekins  out  of  the  cellar,  a  site  to  see — a  con- 
globerashun  uv  blud,  teers,  har,  eye-brows,  skin  and 
grape  juist,  feerful  to  behole.  It  were  horribil,  but 
it  were  funny,  too.  I  lafft  till  I  nearly  died,  and 
Lizer  cum  out,  took  the  old  man  to  the  hydrant, 
washt  him  off  with  a  dish-rag,  and  led  him  slow  and 
paneful  into  the  hous. 

This  brot  me  to  my  senses  and  shamed  me  so  I 
didn'  know  what  to  do.  So  I  lookt  down  in  the  yard 
to  find  Floojins.  Nary  Floojins  did  I  find.  But  pres- 
intly  I  seen  him  in  Mills's  garding — he  had  gone 
thar  to  commune  with  his  own  littil  innersent  andi 
confiden  self.  I  put  on  my  hat,  went  over  to  whar 
Mr.  Bowers,  the  stove  man,  is  a  bildin  sum  houses,, 
gethered  me  a  piece  of  skantlin,  and  lit  into  that 
Floojins  till  you  would  a  thot  the  Ohesapeek  &  Ohier 
frate  trane  was  a  cummin  in  on  tieru  and  a  howlin.. 

It  dun  me  good  and  it  dun  the  boy  good,  but  it 
didn't  help  Meekins.  He  lost  enuf  skelp  to  kiver  a 
trab-ball,  and  I  feel  so  sorry  for  him.  I'me  a  goin, 
to  take  up  a  subskripshun  uv  caf-skin  to  mend  it.  Dr. 
Koleman  says  the  old  man  will  be  out  in  a  week,  if 
the  urrosipelus  don't  set  in  and  his  tung  don'  git  sore 
agin.  But  I'm  not  a  going  to  bed  till  I  do  what's 
rite  by  po'  old  Meekins. 

I've  recht  a  good  old  age,  hav  traviled  fur  and 
wide,  hav  eat  a  heep,  bin  to  Noth  Kiliny,  livd  in 


283 

Am'erst,  seen  much  and  dun  meny  things,  but  Mee- 
kins  havin  twinses  lays  over  eny thing  that  ever  hap- 
ined  in  my  time.  It's  the  ivent  of  the  age.  Uv  all 
and  uv  all.  Meekins  !  Twinses !  I  don't  bleev  it. 
'Taint  so.  I  kinnit  onderstan  it.  My  dride  litenin 
bugs  throws  no  lite  on  the  subjec.  It's  a  dark,  mis- 
teyus  mistery. 

Mozis  ADDUMS. 

Konfexnery  &  Fede  Sto,  Rockitts, 
Dec.  27,  a  Teen  Sebenty  6. 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 


\7  EAE-S  ago — it  matters  not  how  many — there 
JL  walked  the  streets  of  a  nameless  city  a  little 
-school-girl.  Tip-toe  she  stood  upon  that  mount 
whence  the  warm  splendors  of  womanhood  are  des- 
cried. Sweet,  sweet,  arid  never  to  be  forgotten  is 
that  scene !  The  realities  of  her  later  life  may  be 
better,  but  never,  never  so  entrancing. 

She  had  not  a  sinless  heart  that  child;  all  her 
impulses  were  intense,  very  intense,  but  because  she 
was  not  selfish,  those  impulses  led  her  of  tenest  in  the 
right  way,  yet  sometimes  too  far  in  that  way.  Little 
heauty  had  she — nothing  to  take  pride  in,  except  her 
lavish  black  curls,  that  floated  free  on  her  shoulders 
in  those  careless  days.  Her  broad  brow  shamed  her, 
for  it  was  too  broad,  of  almost  masculine  mould,  not 
delicately  shaped  nor  fair.  Mind  she  had,  more  than 
she  knew ;  power,  that  came  of  her  intense  feeling, 
more  than  those  who  should  have  known  her  best 
•ever  dreamed,  but  the  light  of  that  power  was  not 
yet  fully  come  into  her  grey  eyes  to  beautify  them. 
One  bright  spring  morning,  this  little  girl,  in  her 
school-going  walk,  passed  a  gentleman  whose  pres- 
ence so  touched  her  that  she  stopped  and  turned  to 
look  after  him  as  he  went  on.  Morning  after  morn- 
Ing  she  met  him,  passed  him,  turned  to  look  after 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

him.  To  her  young  eyes  he  seemed  old,  taller  than 
he  really  was,  grave,  pale,  abstracted — a  student 
whose  blood  ran  cold,  who  pored  over  dry  books,  wha 
cared  not  for  the  world  budding  in  May,  blithe  and 
warm  with  sunshine  and  bird-songs,  cared  least  of  all 
for  homely  little  school-girls.  From  the  heights  of 
manhood,  he  seemed  to  see  only  far  things — wise  and 
great  things,  that  so  fixed  him  he  could  see  naught 
that  was  little,  be  it  never  so  beautiful  and  sweet. 

This  tall,  handsome  gentleman — he  was  handsome 
— but  very,  very  cold  and  hard — stood  far  above  the 
pettiness  of  such  poor  things  as  flowers  and  music. 
He  was  all  mind — pure  intellect ;  he  had  no  heart. 
Surely,  his  mother  and  sisters  must  have  died  when 
he  was  very  young.  "Poor,  unhappy  gentleman  !" 
This  was  the  little  girl's  thought. 

Once  his  deep  hazel  eyes  deigned  to  fall  to  the 
level  of  that  child's  brow.  Fearlessly  and  full,  she 
met  his  gaze ;  he  but  saw  that  it  was  a  human  being 
and  went  on.  She  sighed,  and  hastened  on  to  school, 
to  miss  her  lesson  (was  not  her  mind  wandering  ?)  to 
be  harshly — too  harshly — reproved  by  her  teacher,  to 
return  home,  and  in  solitude,  unnatural  and  unhealthy 
for  a  child,  to  give  way  to  that  passion  of  tears  which 
only  half  grown  school-girls  know,  and  which  is  so 
terrible,  because  so  boundless,  so  vague. 

Ere  that  grief  was  fully  past,  another  May  morn- 
ing dawned,  a  morning  all  too  soft  and  brilliant  for 
her  mood.  The  storm,  indeed,  was  over,  and  out- 
wardly all  was  calm  and  fair;  but  within,  the  long, 
sullen  waves  were  lashing  the  barren  shore,  and  the 


286  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

clouds,  no  longer  spread  smoothly  over  the  whole 
heavens,  were  gathered  into  dreadful  black  shapes, 
none  the  less  horrible  because  they  went  hurrying 
away  upon  some  fearful  errand  of  ill.  Her  heavy 
heart  foretold  what  bechanced,  as,  satchel  in  hand  and 
with  bonnet  downcast,  she  paced  slowly  toward  her 
dungeon,  the  school-room.  A  carriage  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  house,  trunks  were  piled  behind,  the 
driver  was  gathering  his  reins.  A  tall,  manly  form 
came  out  upon  the  door-step — farewells  were  said, 
hands  shaken,  a  kiss  given  to  a  stately  lady,  and,  with 
pale  face  and  eyes  that  looked  not  up  from  the  pave- 
ment, he  stepped  into  the  carriage,  and  the  door  was 
shut.  It  rattled  with  cruel  sounds  away.  A  little 
while,  and  the  door  of  the  house  was  closed — the 
carriage  had  turned  the  corner.  And  not  a  parting 
word,  not  one  look,  vouchsafed  to  her  who  saw  all 
this.  No,  not  one  word.  It  was  only  an  idle  school- 
girl, stopping  in  the  street — an  idle  little  girl — that 
was  all ! 

Who  told  this  little  girl  that  the  tall,  handsome 
gentleman  was  going  away,  told  her  so  plainly  that 
she  stood  by  and  watched  his  leaving  as  calmly  as  if 
she  had  been  sent  for  to  witness  it— who  told  her 
this  ?  Grief  told  her — grief,  the  truest,  the  only 
prophet  left  us  in  these  the  uninspired  latter  days. 
How  sorrow — it  must  be  deep  sorrow — and  that  alone 
of  all  the  emotions  can  be  and  is  prophetic,  who 
shall  tell  ?  In  the  night-time  come  the  spirits,  yet  if 
the  night  be  many-splendored  they  come  not — it  must 
be  dark. 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  287 

"  He  came  and  he  is  gone.  He  will  not  come  back. 
"Will  he  ?  When  ?"  So  the  little  girl  said  to  herself, 
;and  went  quietly  to  school,  sat  down  at  the  desk,  and 
opened  her  book.  She  remembers  how  very  quiet 
that  morning  and  all  that  day  was,  as  if  the  sense  of 
hearing  had  been  numbed,  or  as  if  an  eclipse  had 
overshadowed  the  world  and  hushed  it.  She  studied 
hard  that  morning  and  henceforth;  what  else  was 
left  for  her  to  do  but  to  study  ? 

The  eclipse  of  that  morning  passed  not  quickly 
away.  In  its  shadow  she  dwelt ;  happy,  she  knew 
not  why.  Far,  far  away,  in  the  distant  sky  behind 
her,  shone  a  star,  faint,  feeble,  tremulous — a  pulsing 
speck  of  light,  which  followed  her,  coming  never 
nearer,  never  going  further.  Could  she  have  seen  it 
plainly,  she  would  have  named  this  shining  mote  with 
a  pretty  name — she  would  have  called  it  Hope.  She 
did  not  see  it,  she  fdt  it  there,  all  the  time,  not 
watching  her,  but  simply  there.  So  peacefully  she 
wrought  away  at  her  work  of  knowing  what  books 
might  teach.  Something  she  learned  of  that  il- 
lumined volume  whose  beautiful  lids  Spring  uplifts, 
whose  glorious  leaves  Summer  unfolds — that  volume 
which  Autumn  shuts  somewhat  again,  but  which  even 
winter  cannot  wholly  close.  One  other  book  she 
studied  closely — that  living,  thinking,  feeling  book 
we  call  the  heart,  the  mind,  the  soul. 

And  now  the  girl  was  a  woman  grown,  wore  a 
woman's  dress,  and  learned  to  bind  her  black  curls  in 
formal  puffs  and  bands.  But  the  curls  were  wilful, 
and  the  woman  would  often  let  them  have  their  way. 


288  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

She  had  quitted  school,  or  rather  she  had  changed 
her  school.  Her  school-house  now  was  solitude,  her 
teacher,  herself.  This  is  the  saddest  school  of  all — 
for  the  young.  Only  strong  scholars  can  go  to  it. 
The  weak,  the  worldly,  the  puny  of  mind  or  of  heart,, 
cannot  go ;  they  die.  It  is  the  best  school ;  but  to 
be  forced  to  it  in  youth,  day  after  day,  oh !  it  is 
wearisome,  it  is  hurtful.  Jane  Eyre's  school  at  Lo- 
wood  was  gladsome  compared  to  it. 

The  girl  was  a  woman  grown.  It  is  no  discredit 
to  her  to  say  that  she  wished  to  be  admired  and  loved 
— and  it  has  been  already  said  that  her  impulses  and 
desires  were  intense.  In  the  fresh  morning  of  woman- 
hood, homage  comes  most  naturally  to  woman,  and 
she  should  have  it  then.  If  she  misses  it,  she  goes 
sick ;  and  if  she  misses  it  long,  the  sickness  is  but  too 
apt  to  become  blight,  from  which  she  may  recover, 
out  of  which  she  may  wear,  but  not  without  retain- 
ing a  dry  sore  at  heart. 

"  She  intensely  desired  to  be  loved,"  aye !  and  to 
love.  No  shame  to  her  for  this.  Admiration  she 
also  desired,  and  she  is  no  woman  who  pretends  to 
wish  otherwise.  Love  of  admiration  is  not  vanity ; 
^(/-admiration  is.  How  could  she  be  vain  whose 
mirror  told  the  truth,  and  whose  heart  was  not  afraid 
to  own  it  ?  She  wished,  as  only  a  plain  woman  can 
wish,  to  be  beautiful,  dazzlingly  beautiful;  and  in 
beauty's  default,  she  longed  that  some  clear  eye  of 
power  might  pierce  to  that  hidden  spring  whence 
flowed  emotions  she  knew  to  be  more  beautiful  than 
any  tints  of  complexion  or  lines  of  configuration.- 


IT  IS  ONMIPOTENT.  289 

Yet  she  stood  a  hand-breadth's  height  above  her  com- 
panions, her  shape  was  envied,  and  her  skin — too 
quick  to  lose  or  gain  its  color — was  so  praised  that 
she  herself,  at  times,  lingered  to  look  at  it.  She 
could  talk,  talk  nonsense  too,  and  abundantly ;  laugh 
merrily,  and  in  any  other  way  make  herself,  as  she 
thought,  truly  agreeable.  The  girls  enjoyed,  or  pre- 
tended to  enjoy,  her  society  wonderfully.  What 
wonder,  then,  if  she  asked  herself  many  torturing 
and  unanswerable  questions,  when,  looking  around 
her,  she  saw  many  of  her  school-mates  belles,  all 
more  or  less  beloved,  and  herself  alone  wholly,  utterly 
neglected.  It  was  thus  for  years.  Years !  and 
every  moment  of  every  day  of  these  years  her  heart 
ached  in  want,  in  emptiness,  in  shame,  in  anger,  in 
fear.  Her  maiden's  right — love — was  denied  her. 
Why  I  What  was,  what  could  be,  the  reason  of  it? 
What  had  she  done,  to  be  punished  thus  \  Was  it  to 
be  always  ?  Would  it  never  end  ?  These  questions, 
repeated  a  thousand  times  oftener,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
than  any  of  her  hapless  sisters  have  repeated  them, 
were  never  answered,  then  nor  since.  It  was  so 
ordered ;  simply  that. 

Her  wont,  during  these  unhappy  days,  was  to  walk 
alone  in  the  garden.  There,  book  in  hand,  she  would 
pace  the  level-topped  terraces  for  hours  on  hours,  not 
reading,  not  thinking  of  what  she  had  read,  but, 
fruitless  task !  questioning  destiny,  and  conning  in 
the  high  clouds  hopes  that  winged  themselves  too 
quickly  away,  or  studying  the  sadness  that  dwells 
asleep  over  in  the  far  horizon.  Her  imagination, 
19 


290  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

though  it  teemed  with  fairest  images,  claimed  not 
the  power  to  give  pantheistic  shapes  to  the  beautiful 
earth-life  around  her,  to  give  poetic  utterances  to  the 
slow,  soft  wind  that  whispered  secrets  in  her  ears,  or 
to  compel  meanings  from  the  splendid  light  that 
rained  out  of  the  blue  heavens.  And  the  leaves  that 
were  born,  grew  old,  and  died  silently  at  her  feet — 
telling  her  nothing  of  all  they  knew.  The  mystery 
of  the  changeful  elements,  the  magic  work  of  na- 
ture's hidden  alchemy,  she  was  content  to  let  pass  in 
bright  panorama,  uninterpreted,  except  as  signs  and 
wonders,  telling  of  Him  that  dwelleth  in  light  inac- 
cessible and  full  of  glory.  In  her  book  she  saw  how 
some  priest  or  priestess  of  nature  construed  these 
wonders ;  but  when  she  came  back  from  the  book  to 
the  temple  itself — the  mighty  temple  of  the  visible,, 
ever-changing,  ever-renewed  life — she  confessed  with 
sorrow  that  the  makers  of  books  were  false,  or  but 
partially  inspired  prophets.  Every  moment,  every 
sound  in  that  sky-domed  temple,  older,  grander,  more 
beautiful  than  Greece,  Egypt  or  India  ever  saw, 
points  to  some  sibylline  leaf  yet  undiscovered,  per- 
haps undiscoverable.  Something  of  nature's  form 
and  color  the  poets  may  describe;  but  of  our  mo- 
ther's speech  and  the  true  dialect  they  bear  no  wit- 
ness, they  know  nothing.  Sight  is  the  sense  the 
Muses  love  to  instruct;  hearing  they  will  not,  be- 
cause they  cannot,  educate.  Not  that  man  is  deaf ; 
he  hears,  indeed,  but  cannot  comprehend  what  he 
hears  under  the  azure  dome.  How  pitiable  his 
guesses  at  the  significance  of  sounds  in  the  not  soul- 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  291 

less  world  of  matter !  "What  do  the  prattling  waters 
say  ?  the  winds  with  their  almost  human  breath  ?  the 
vocal  birds?  and  what  the  hush  of  starry  nights  and 
swooning  noons — what  say  these  eloquent  silences? 
The  poet  cannot  tell.  At  best  he  can  only  imitate 
the  tongues  he  hears,  and  listen — further  off  than 
ever  from  the  meaning — to  his  imitations. 

Yet  it  is  pleasant  to  listen — beyond  all  things  plea- 
sant to  imitate,  even  remotely,  and  to  fix  on  the  legi- 
ble page  the  sad,  sweet  intimations  of  nature's  music 
— the  hinted  thought  of  the  worlds  of  light  and 
peace,  the  sorrowless  worlds,  where  melody  in  all  the 
fulness  of  its  spiritual  significance  and  force  is 
known,  truly,  perfectly. 

Annie,  so  was  she  called,  had  many  friends  among 
the  girls  of  her  acquaintance,  but  her  best  friend 
was  her  piano.  To  her  the  piano  was  something 
more  than  a  plaything,  much  more  than  a  mere  help 
to  fill  up  the  pauses  in  conversation  with  tiresome 
visitors.  It  was  the  joy  of  her  life,  the  interpreter 
of  all  her  wordless  moods,  whether  gay  or  grave, 
the  confidante  of  her  heart — that  heart  so  full  of 
longings,  seemingly  never  to  be  appeased.  Hence 
she  excelled  in  music,  astonished  her  masters,  learned 
to  despise  them,  and,  when  alone  and  secure  against 
intrusion,  not  seldom  surprised  and  delighted  her- 
self— so  promptly  and  so  volubly  the  keys  gave  back 
the  music  which  neither  books  nor  masters  had  ever 
taught  her.  In  the  Autumn  twilights,  when  the  fire 
in  the  grate  warmed  but  did  not  dispel  the  gloom,, 
there  would  sometimes  come  to  her  a  thrilling  force, 


292  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

a  passion  and  a  power  to  compel  whatever  she  would 
of  strange,  wild,  sad,  beautiful  utterances  from  the 
instrument  she  loved.  When  the  piano  was  obe- 
dient, she  was  happy.  Then  she  truly  lived,  then 
placed  due  value  on  her  life,  which  at  all  other  times 
seemed  wasting  uselessly  away,  then  felt  not  the 
teasing  of  hope,  but  the  high  and  joyous  fruition  of 
power. 

One  evening — can  she  ever  forget  it? — she  had 
wandered  late  in  the  garden.  Step  by  step,  during 
that  long  walk,  her  spirit  seemed  to  descend  the 
solemn  vale  where,  among  great  dusky  rocks,  over- 
grown with  gnarled  and  leafless  trees,  is  put  the 
cavern  of  Despair.  Long  she  stood,  breathing  the 
deadly  vapor  that  came  out  of  its  black,  illimitable 
depths.  When  an  unseen  hand  led  her  gently  away 
from  the  mouth  of  that  horrid  vault,  she  was  loath 
to  go;  yet  the  kindly  force  constrained  her.  The 
October  moon  was  riding  high,  the  yellow  mist  was 
thick  and  chill,  when  she  went  in,  and  her  school- 
girl sorrow, — the  terrible,  vague  sorrow  which  seized 
her  the  day  before  the  proud,  cold  stranger  left, 
never  to  return, — was  upon  her.  She  locked  herself 
in  the  parlor,  and  there,  with  thought  and  sense  and 
feeling,  with  fears  and  hopes — all  the  fears  and  hopes 
of  her  lonely  life  blended  in  one  usurping  passion — 
she  poured  forth  upon  the  piano  the  sad  story  which 
had  been  dumb  in  her  breast  so  many  years.  It  was 
a  weird,  a  melancholy,  yet  most  sweet  story — the 
sweetest  ever  told  in  the  sweet  language  of  music. 
The  trembling,  tender  fire  of  the  serenade,  the 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  293 

mortal  sadness  and  the  immortal  hope  of  the  re- 
quiem were  indissolubly  and  harmoniously  inter- 
woven in  it ;  and  through  this  warm,  melodious  woof 
of  mournful  sweetness  ran  tortuous  threads  of  scarlet 
and  of  silver  sound,  now  lost,  now  found  again, — 
intimations,  suggestions,  reachings,  upheavings,  aspi- 
rations,— ever  hiding,  vet  ever  flashing  back  to  light, 
something  almost  unbearable,  piercing  through  all 
the  changeful,  thrilling  chords. 

Unlike  other  improvisations,  this  air  was  defined, 
complete ;  she  played  it  again  and  again ;  it  did  not 
change  with  the  ever-changing  shades  of  emotion, 
although  that  emotion  did  not  even  keep  always 
within  the  key ;  it  insisted  upon  its  own  original  ut- 
terance, admitting  nor  permitting  any  variation.  She 
remembered  it  perfectly — could  have  written  it  in 
notes  if  she  had  chosen.  But  she  was  startled  to 
find  how  old  it  was,  familiar  to  her  as  the  most  fa- 
miliar airs  of  childhood — the  oldest,  it  seemed — the 
sweetest  and  the  dearest  of  early  recollections. 
Where  she  had  heard  it,  when,  and  under  what  cir- 
cumstances it  was  first  played  to  her,  she  could  never 
tell ;  but  she  soon  ceased  to  think  of  it  as  her  own 
production. 

Noiselessly  as  a  spirit  she  walked  from  the  parlor 
to  her  chamber.  The  clock  struck  twelve.  Was  it 
possible  ?  She  retired,  but  not  to  sleep ;  she  wept, 
but  the  tears  were  sweet.  The  faint  star,  which, 
had  stood  so  long  above  and  behind  her,  was  brighter 
now,  and  had  moved  forward.  Then  the  days  be- 
gan to  go  swiftly,  the  air  became  purer,  the  light 


294:  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

shone  clearer,  something  dark  and  heavy  had  passed 
away  from  her.  Yet  it  was  Autumn  still,  and  the 
breathing  of  her  spirit  was  not  quite  free  and  unim- 
peded. So  the  Winter  came  on,  less  stern  than  of 
yore,  but  vacant. 

With  the  winter  came  parties,  in  which  she  took 
little  delight.  She  danced  to  fill  up  the  set;  she 
talked  with  those  who  talked  with  her  because  they 
could  talk,  just  then,  with  no  one  they  liked  better. 
She  was  always  asked  to  play,  and  she  played  me- 
chanically— banged,  that  under  the  coverture  of  the 
banging  the  chatter  might  go  on  more  quietly,  and 
soft  words  might  be  spoken  to  willing  ears.  Sitting 
thus  one  night  at  the  piano,  the  thought  came  to 
her,  "If  I  have  any  skill,  it  is  on  this  instrument; 
yet,  play  as  I  may,  they  heed  me  not."  Her  great 
pride  was  stung  to  the  quick  at  this.  "  I  will  con- 
vince myself  how  silly  and  weak  I  really  am,"  said 
she  to  herself.  "  I  will  play  the  air  that  moves  me 
most;  I  will  play  it  with  all  the  feeling  and  all  the 
force  I  can  command,  under  these  lights,  and  in  this 
noisy  throng,  who  know  me  not,  nor  care  for  me." 

She  played.  There,  in  the  midst  of  the  revel,  she 
boldly  told  the  secret  of  her  heart — told  it  in  that 
beautiful  language  which  is  the  native  tongue  of  the 
souls  of  all  men  that  walk  the  earth. 

Whether  there  was  something  in  the  air  itself 
which  had  power  to  command  her  consciousness 
away  from  the  gay  scene  around  her,  she  knows 
not;  she  only  knows  that  the  thrill  of  strength  crea- 
tive passed  from  her  heart  to  her  hands,  and — there 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  295 

was  silence ;  and  then  applause,  questions,  entreaties, 
warm  entreaties  to  play  it  again.  If  her  life  had 
been  at  stake  she  could  not  have  complied.  She 
rose,  and  was  introduced  to . 

Oh !  how  pale  her  poor  foolish  face  grew.  The 
chill  of  death  ran  to  her  very  heart.  She  needs  must 
take  his  arm,  and  they  walked  into  the  hall,  where 
the  air  was  purer.  She  could  not  look  at  him,  yet 
she  saw  him,  faint  as  she  was.  Unchanged,  un- 
changed ;  grave,  pale,  cold,  proud.  For  the  first  time 
she  heard  his  voice:  it  was  low,  deliberate,  full  of 
power,  and,  at  that  moment,  kind  even  to  pity.  And 
this  angered  her.  "  What,  after  so  long,  pity  me, 
and  pity  me  here.  The  time  is  past  when  I  needed 
pity.  Have  I  not  been  well  this  half  year  ?"  Sum- 
moning all  her  strength,,  she  forced  the  color  back  to 
her  cowardly,  tell-tale  cheek,  and  answered  him: 
"  No,  she  was  not  sick — she  was  quite  well,  and 
would  trouble  him  no  longer." 

This  was  even  roughly  said.  A  film  of  something 
very  near  disgust  overlay  his  surprised  voice  when  he 
replied : 

"  Trouble?" 

The  cadence  of  interrogation  ended  in  pity.  It 
was  not  that  she  wanted.  She  withdrew  her  arm,  and 
so  they  parted. 

Yes,  the  house  was  lonely,  and  the  grey  eyes,  feel- 
ing ashamed  of  the  warmer  light  that  shone  in  them, 
would  look  out  of  the  window — a  glance,  and  then  to 
work  and  study  again.  But  nothing  passed  the  win- 
dow ;  days,  days,  days,  and  nothing  passed  the  win- 


296  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

dow.  She  would  not  go  out ;  they  might  beg,  they 
might  threaten  and  talk  of  doctors,  but  she  would 
not  go  abroad.  She  could  get  fresh  air  in  the  gar- 
den, and  now\  what  were  doctors  made  for,  she  won- 
dered? Yet  the  dull  days  sped  on,  on,  on,  how 
wearily,  how  lonesomely  !  Hope,  new-born  and  full 
of  vigorous  life,  was  dying ;  the  light  of  life  wa& 
darkened,  the  star  above  her  shone  paler,  and  the 
fresh  impulse  which  had  made  her  heart  warm  and 
the  world  habitable,  was  gone.  Then — why  is  it  al- 
ways thus  ? — then  he  was  announced. 

She  was  not  slow  to  meet  him  in  her  own  parlor, 
nor  backward  to  atone  for  her  rudeness  at  the  party. 
Surely,  it  became  her  to  make  his  visit  a  pleasant  one,, 
so  pleasant  that  he  would  return  again.  But  he  was 
calm,  and  would  not  respond  to  her  warmth  and  ani- 
mation— perhaps  she  showed  her  gladness  too  plainly. 
Pained  by  this  thought,  she  became  as  cold  as  himself. 

Conversation  had  not  fairly  commenced  ere  he 
startled  and  offended  her  by  asking  her  to  the  piano. 
She  could  not  refuse,  neither  could  she  do  herself 
justice.  "I  am  only  a  musical  instrument  in  his 
eyes,  to  which  he  will  listen  a  little  while  and  go 
away  and  forget  it."  How  cmdd  she  play  ? 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Annie,"  said  he,  "  but  I  have 
not  forgotten  the  beautiful  air  which  procured  for 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  Will  you  play 
it  for  me  now  ?" 

"  I  cannot." 

"Why?" 

"Indeed,  I  cannot." 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  •  297 

Soon  he  went  away,  leaving  her  not  altogether  at 
peace  with  herself.  But  he  came  again,  and  with  the 
same  petition.  The  compliment  implied  in  his  visit 
was  destroyed  by  this  request,  preferred,  as  before, 
but  a  few  minutes  after  he  entered  the  room.  "  He 
is  in  love  with  the  tune,"  said  she,  to  herself,  "  I  have 
heard  of  such  instances  before." 

She  would  not  play  it  for  him,  though  he  asked  a 
second  and  a  third  time  for  it.  There  was  a  smile  of 
derision,  barely  perceptible,  but  unmistakable,  on  his 
face. 

"  He  thinks  me  childish.  I  am  not,"  in  wordless 
answer  to  that  smile. 

He  went  away,  and  the  weary  days  began  to  come^ 
and  go.  While  the  long  hours  wore  on,  she  thought 
to  herself:  "I  wTill  yield  next  time.  I  will  play  it 
with  all  my  heart,  my  soul — he  shall  like  it  better 
than  before." 

But  no  sooner  was  he  come  than  this  promise  wa& 
broken.  The  old  unwillingness  and  jealousy  returned, 
to  her.  Rising  to  leave,  he  said : 

"  I  have  never  before  sought  a  favor  so  earnestly  r 
nor  will  I  ever  again." 

Yet  he  came  back,  and  though  he  said  not  a  word- 
concerning  music,  his  eyes  asked  all  and  more  than/ 
his  lips  had  ever  asked.  Only  once,  but  very  wist- 
fully, almost  sadly,  lie  looked  towards  the  piano^ 
At  this,  her  heart  instantly  gave  way,  and,  unbidden, 
she  took  her  seat  at  the  instrument.  His  face  did 
not  even  brighten.  "But  why,"  said  she,  wheeling 
suddenly  on  the  stool,  "why  are  you  so  anxious  to> 


'298  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

tear  this  air?  It  is  old;  you  must  have  heard  it 
often  before  you  knew  me." 

"Never,  I  assure  you.  It  is  beyond  expression 
tender  and  sweet;  it  is  wild  yet  sad;  the  spirit  of 
freedom,  the  freedom  of  the  forest  and  the  seas, 
breathes  through  its  soft  melancholy.  I  think  it 
must  be  original  with  you.  These  are  reasons  suf- 
ficient to  induce  me  to  ask,  but  beyond  these  there 
is  another  stronger  than  them  all." 

"  Then  tell  me  that  reason,  or  I  will  not  play  for  you." 

"I  cannot." 

She  closed  the  piano.  He  took  his  leave,  mani- 
festing his  displeasure  only  by  the  gravity  of  his 
parting  words,  "I  will  persist  no  longer."  Fain 
would  she  have  called  him  back — after  it  was  too 
late.  Her  satisfied  pride  assured  her  that  womanly 
self-respect  demanded  kinder  treatment  toward  one 
whose  only  fault  was  perhaps  of  her  own  coining — 
a  suspicion  on  her  part  transformed  into  a  defect  on 
his.  If  he  was  in  love  with  her  music,  was  that 
cause  enough  to  justify  behavior  such  as  hers?  It 
was  not ;  her  common  sense,  her  conscience  told  her 
it  was  not.  But  what  waywardness  equals  that  en- 
gendered of  the  purest  of  emotions,  acknowledged  or 
denied,  in  woman's  breast  ? 

Her  heart  told  her  he  would  persist,  and  told  her 
truly. 

"  Confess  the  secret  reason,  and  I  will  play,"  said 
she  the  moment  he  came. 

Had  she  not  abundant  cause  for  alarm,  when  he 
.answered  with  all  the  solemnity  of  truth : 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  299 

"  In  Paris,  I  was  sick- — dying,  my  physicians 
thought.  Little  I  cared,  for  life  had  never  been  dear 
to  me.  But  as  I  lay,  whether  awake  or  asleep  I 
knew  not,  whether  dreaming  or  indulging  those 
fancies  which  come  with  death's  shadow  I  cannot 
tell ;  while  I  lay  thus,  there  came  to  me — from  the 
street  it  seemed,  though  the  nurse  assured  me  other- 
wise— an  air  so  like,  and  yet  so  unlike,  the  one  you  can 
play  if  you  will,  that  the  resemblance,  if  it  be  a 
resemblance,  is  wonderful  even  to  the  borders  of  the 
miraculous.  What  the  echo  is  to  the  sound,  the 
shadow  to  the  substance,  the  twin  brother  to  the 
sister  twin,  was  that  air  to  yours.  And  yet  it  dif- 
fered in  this,  that  its  suggestions  were  wholly  unlike 
those  produced  by  yours.  That  suggested  Home,  in 
its  most  vivid  conceptions  of  repose,  peace,  seclusion, 
purity,  sanctity — all  that  endears  life;  while  yours, 
as  I  have  said,  suggests  freedom,  as  of  a  plumed 
angel  sweeping  the  starry  expanse,  joying  in  his 
swift  flight,  yet  carrying  with  him  everywhere  the 
infinitely  tender  memories  of  heaven ;  memories  pen- 
sive because  of  their  unutterable  sweetness.  I  bade 
the  servant  open  the  window  that  I  might  the  bet- 
ter catch  the  notes  of  this  ineffable  melody.  The 
moment  he  did  so,  it  died  away ;  and  often  as  it  re- 
turned to  me  during  the  night,  and  often  as  I  bade 
him  open  the  window,  the  same  result  followed. 
"There  was,  of  course,  nothing  supernatural  in  this. 
Doubtless  my  brain  was  excited  as  the  brains  of 
composers  often  are,  and  the  melody  was  within  and 
not  without  me.  Yet  the  effect  was  to  arouse  and 


300  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

stimulate  me,  and  this  stimulus  saved  me.  Can  you1 
wonder  that  I  was  startled  the  night  of  the  party,, 
that  I  immediately  sought  an  introduction  to  you, 
visited  you,  entreated  you  time  and  again,  in  de- 
fiance of  my  self-respect,  to  play  this  air  for  me,  or 
that,  seeing  how  closely  the  story  borders  on  the 
marvellous,  I  should  have  been  loath  to  tell  it  to  you  ?" 

"I  cannot,"  she  replied,  with  his  own  solemnity [; 
for  the  chill  and  the  pallor  of  that  very  apprehen- 
sion he  had  striven  to  disclaim,  viz. :  of  the  super- 
natural, was  upon  her — "I  cannot.  I  fully  believe 
this  story,  nay  I  know  it." 

"  How  ?"  asked  he  quickly. 

"  Because  the  melody  came  to  me  the  very  night 
it  came  to  you." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  night  ?" 

"  Perfectly." 

"  "What  was  it  ?" 

"  The  twenty-sixth  of  August." 

"  Of  the  year  just  gone  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  palm,  and  sat  nr 
sculptured  stillness. 

"  How  can  this  be  ?" 

Then,  with  the  star  of  her  life  shining  in  full 
splendor  near  her,  with  the  authority  of  one  whose 
destiny  is  assured  beyond  mischance,  she  answered : 

"  Ere  very  long  I  will  tell  you." 


IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT.  301 

Many  days  after  this  she  was  playing  the  melody 
^he  loved  so  well,  and  which  she  also,  for  his  sake, 
loved. 

He  withdrew  the  hand  that  had  been  hidden 
.among  her  curls. 

"  Annie,  you  have  never  named  this  air." 

"  Never  until  now." 

"  The  name  should  be  sweet.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Sit  down,  then." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  That  you  may  see  the  name  in  those  grey  eyes 
which  you  say  reveal  so  much." 

"  I  see  it,  plainly,"  said  he. 

"  Then  tell  me." 

"'The  Dryad's  Eequiem.'" 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Is  it  so  sad  as  that  ?" 

He  guessed  again.     "  '  The  Naiad's  Bridal  ?'  r 

She  dissented.  "  You  are  not  bright  this  morn- 
ing, or  else  my  eyes  are  dull,  /must  tell  its  name." 

"What?" 

"  LOVE  !" 

"  First  or  last  love  ?" 

"  Both  first  and  last,  the  one,  only  love." 

"  The  best  possible  name.  But  why  have  you  so 
named  it  ?" 

"  Now  that  I  have  the  right,  I  will  tell  you." 

She  told  him  the  school  girl's  story — the  history 
of  her  heart  from  childhood  to  girlhood,  from  girl- 
liood  to  womanhood,  the  pure  secret  which  had  re- 
vealed and  interpreted  itself  in  the  air  he  so  dearly 
prized." 


302  IT  IS  OMNIPOTENT. 

"  You  must  give  it  another  name,"  said  he,  when, 
she  had  finished. 
"  What  name  ?" 
"  Call  it  <  Woman's  Power.' " 
"  Why  ?" 

"  Because — "  he  hesitated. 
"  Because  what  ?" 
"  It  is  omnipotent !" 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 


A  LMOST  the  first  words  my  wife  said  to  me  on 
_jLJL  my  return  to  Richmond  after  Lee's  surrender 
were — "  Richard,  speak  to  Amy :  she's  been  our  best 
friend." 

So  I  "  spoke  to "  Amy,  a  likely  mulatto,  which 
much  embarrassed  Amy. 

"  Why,  Ann  has  not  deserted  you,  surely  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  but  Ann  is  in  the  kitchen  now,  and  you 
can  speak  to  her  some  other  time." 

Ann  and  Amy  were  the  only  servants  we  had; 
and  the  night  before  the  fall  of  Richmond,  when  I 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  take  leave  of  them,  and  told 
them  that  the  Yankees  would  be  in  town  the  next 
morning  and  they  would  be  free,  they  asked  me  what 
they  had  better  do. 

"  Stick  to  your  mistress.  Good-bye,"  was  my  re- 
ply as  I  hurried  away. 

And  they  did  stick  to  her  faithfully  all  through 
that  dreadful  day,  when  the  awful  fire  was  raging, 
when  fragments  of  shell  were  raining  on  top  of  our 
little  home,  when  the  houses  across  the  street  were 
in  flames,  and  when  our  own  house,  on  fire  a  dozen 
times,  threatened  to  burn  down  over  their  heads, 
and  every  day  for  three  weeks  after  they  had  clung 


:304:  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

.steadfastly  to  her,  doing  everything  they  could  to 
cheer,  comfort  and  help  her  along,  and  abating  not 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  their  former  respect. 

This  news  pleased  me  mightily,  but  did  not  in  the 
least  surprise  me,  because  I  had  always  had  a  high 
opinion  of  both  Amy  and  Ann.  Trained  in  the 
house,  they  belonged  to  the  better  class  of  servants, 
and  were  in  themselves  good-hearted  people. 

"How  have  the  Yankees  treated  you?"  was  my 
first  question. 

"  Very  well.  The  morning  of  the  surrender  your 
father  came  early  through  the  fire  and  smoke,  bring- 
ing me  a  guard — a  Pennsylvania  boy,  a  private — 
quite  handsome  he  was — who  read  his  Bible  often 
during  the  day,  and  treated  me  with  the  utmost  re- 
spect. At  nightfall  he  was  replaced  by  an  Irishman, 
a  full-grown  man,  equally  respectful,  who  paced  the 
back  and  front  yards  all  night  long,  to  guard  against 
fire  and  to  protect  us  from  thieves.  He  remained 
several  days,  until  order  was  restored  in  the  city  and 
danger  was  passed.  Other  ladies,  hearing  of  his 
presence,  came  and  placed  themselves  under  his  pro- 
tection. He  was  such  a  comfort  to  us  that  we  were 
all  sorry  when  he  left,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  tried  to 
show  my  appreciation  of  him  by  giving  him  the 
best  we  had  to  eat  in  the  house — not  very  good,  you 
know,  but  the  best  we  had." 

"  Haven't  you  had  rations  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  neither  myself  nor  the  servants  could 
eat  the  corn  and  bacon  they  gave  us — they  are  so 
coarse,  so  different  from  ours." 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  305 

"  Then  you  like  the  Yankees,  they  have  been  so 
kind  to  you  ?" 

"What!  If  Oh,  Richard,  how  can  you  ask  such  a 
question?" 

u Why  not?" 

"  Well,  the  men  have  been  respectful,  and  the  offi- 
cers have  certainly  been  very  polite — they  are  going 
to  send  two  great  army-wagons  and  some  men  to 

move  us  next  week  to  Mrs.  B 's,  where  I've 

rented  rooms  much  better  than  these  we  have  here, 
and  the  moving  will  not  cost  us  a  cent — but — but — 
I  can't  like  them.  Don't  ask  me  why.  They  are  so 
unlike  us,  have  such  a  strange  pronunciation,  and 
they  have  conquered  our  country ;  and — and — I  don't 
I  can't  like  them." 

"  You  wait  a  while.  Their  kindness  will  be  sure 
to  break  you  down." 

"  Never  /"  was  this  rebellious  woman's  reply. 

After  our  removal  to  Mrs.  B 's  we  had  some 

further  talk  about  the  Yankees — important  talk — 
with  a  view  to  our  future  course  in  life.  My  wife's 
opinion  was,  that  we  had  little  to  hope  from  them : 
they  hated  us,  were  doing  all  they  could  to  humiliate 
us,  and  would  continue  to  do  so.  I  did  not  agree 
with  her.  My  idea  was,  that  the  reaction  from  the 
war  would  be  quick  and  complete;  that,  as  we  had 
at  least  shown  ourselves  to  be  brave,  they  would  be 
as  proud  of  us  as  the  English  were  of  the  Scotch 
after  the  union  of  the  two  countries;  that  they 
would  make  much  of  us,  and  do  all  they  could  to 

20 


306  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

restore  our  waste  places,  in  order  that  the   whole 
country  might  prosper. 

My  idea  is  still  the  same.  I  believe  now,  not- 
withstanding Mr.  Lincoln's  most  unfortunate  assas- 
sination, that  if  the  politicians  and  newspaper-men 
had  given  the  cue  of  kindness,  the  people  would 
gladly  have  followed,  and  that  kindness  shown  so 
generally  by  military  men  just  after  the  surrender 
would  have  been  universally  imitated  by  civilians, 
and  would  surely  have  broken  us  down.  Restoration 
would  then  have  been  from  the  heart,  without  the 
need  of  complex  laws  and  constitutional  amend- 
ments. The  opposite  course  was  chosen  by  the  au- 
thorities in  Washington,  and — the  result  is  before  us. 
Here  I  am,  Yirginian-like,  talking  politics  when  I 
started  out  to  tell  about  Servantgalism.  My  excuse 
is  this — if,  indeed,  it  were  possible  for  me  to  help 
myself — that  I  have  yet  to  read  in  a  Northern  mag- 
azine or  literary  paper  the  first  story,  essay  or  sketch 
relating  to  the  war,  or  the  events  which  followed  it, 
that  was  not  pretty  well  peppered  with  politics,  and 
very  sectional  politics  at  that.  But  the  conquerors 
have  rights  that  the  conquered  have  not. 

My  little  debate  with  my  wife  ended  thus :  "  While 
I  believe  that  the  Yankees  are  going  to  be  kind  to 
us,  even  more  so  than  they  have  been  already, 
I  have  no  idea  of  remaining  where  I  am — on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  fence.  I  intend  to  turn  Yankee 
myself." 

"  What  f" — I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  wife's 
eyebrows  at  that  moment. 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  SOT 

"Richmond  is  getting  to  be  rather  a  hot  and  dark 
place  for  me.  Too  many  impudent  negroes  here.  I 
can't  help  feeling  subjugated:  can  you?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"Well,  then,  for  one,  I  don't  intend  to  remain  a 
down-trodden  rebel ;  I  am  going  to  be  a  free  Amer- 
ican citizen — I  am  going  to  Boston." 

"Boston  /"  The  poor  little  soul  was  aghast,  and 
fairly  screamed. 

"  Yes,  Boston  is  the  place  for  me.  I  want  to  be 
in  the  head-quarters  of  Yankeedom.  The  laws 
passed  for  loyal  men  will  be  my  laws,  the  tariff 
passed  for  their  benefit  will  be  my  tariff — " 

"Desert  your  country  in  its  hour  of  trial?  Oh, 
Richard!" 

"My  child,  if  by  staying  here  and  sharing  the 
sufferings  of  my  fellow-rebels  (so  called),  I  could  do 
the  least  good,  you  know  I  would  not  hesitate  an  in- 
stant. But  that  is  not  the  question." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"The  question  is,  How  am  I  to  make  a  living 
here  ? — how  get  food  and  clothing  for  you  and  the 
little  girl  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered  sadly;  "I  had  not 
thought  of  that." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  I  went,  not  to  Boston,  but 
to  'New  York,  where  I  remained  several  months, 
enjoying  myself  very  much,  as  became  a  free  citizen 
of  the  United  States.  Mrs.  Elder — that  is  my  wife — 
unwilling  to  be  left  alone  in  the  negro-overwhelmed 
city  of  her  nativity,  accepted  the  invitation  of  a 


308  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

friend  to  visit  her  in  a  distant  State.  Amy  went 
with  her;  Ann,  of  course,  had  to  be  left  behind,  and 
was  discharged. 

One  day  I  ran  down  from  'New  York  to  see  Mrs. 
Elder.  As  I  drew  near  the  house  there  was  my  lit- 
tle Virginian  toddling  about  the  porch,  and  there, 
too,  was  the  faithful  Amy.  Ah,  how  my  heart 
warmed  toward  Amy !  how  I  relied  on  her ! 

The  weather  was  intensely  hot.  Looking  from 
the  porch,  my  attention  was  drawn  to  a  white  man 
who  was  mowing  in  a  neighboring  field.  Through 
all  the  blazing  hours  of  the  long,  long  midsummer 
day  that  man  swung  his  scythe,  stopping  a  half  hour 
for  dinner,  and  never  ceasing  until  the  broad  red  sun 
went  down  in  the  burning  west.  Panting  in  the 
shade  of  the  ample  porch,  I  wondered  he  didn't  drop 
from  sun-stroke. 

"Gussie,"  said  I,  "who  is  that  man?" 

"Why,  that  is  Tom  Watson,  who  used  to  live  in 
Giles  county." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so !     I  must  go  to  see  him." 

That  very  evening  I  did  go  to  see  him,  and  he 
gave  me  an  item  in  Servantmanism. 

"  Tom,"  I  asked,  "  how  in  the  world  do  you  stand 
the  life  you  are  leading?  I  wonder  it  don't  kill 
you." 

"  Kill  me !  I  never  had  such  health  in  my  life  ;  I 
sleep  like  a  top — like  ten  tops.  But,  Richard" — 
here  his  face  and  his  voice  fell — "  my  mind  is  going, 
I  can  actually  feel  my  brain  shrinking  inside  of  my 
skull.  You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  the  solemn  truth. 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  309 

Head !  I  never  read,  and  I  never  think ;  I  have  no 
time  to  do  either.  When  I  get  home  at  night  it  is 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  milk  the  cow,  chop  the  wood, 
eat  my  supper,  and  fall  into  bed.  I'm  asleep  in  a 
second.  I  can't  even  talk  to  my  wife  or  play  with 
my  children.  And  on  Sunday  I  literally  rest — eat 
and  sleep.  As  for  going  to  church,  I  never  think  of 
it;  it  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  So,  then,  you  don't  believe  in  the  Yankee  theory 
about  the  i  dignity  of  labor  ?' " 

"Not  a  confounded  bit.  It  is  the  most  infernal 
nonsense  that  was  ever  uttered." 

Do  you  know  that  (being  a  Virginian)  it  pleased 
me  hugely  to  hear  Tom  say  this  ? 

Then  Tom,  after  explaining  why  it  was  that  he 
couldn't  afford  to  hire  "help"  on  his  little  farm, 
gave  me  another  item,  this  time  about  Servantgalism 
— or  rather  the  want  of  it — and  white  Servantman- 
ism  in  its  stead. 

"Are  you  well  acquainted  with  the  old  gentleman 
your  family  is  staying  with?"  inquired  Tom. 

"Well,  no — I  can't  say  that  I  am.     But  why?" 

"  Because  he  is  the  gamest  old  cock  that  ever  I 
heard  of." 

"How  so?" 

"  Well,  a  year  or  so  ago,  while  the  war  was  raging, 
the  old  gentleman's  wife,  who  had  just  given  birth 
to  a  child,  was  attacked  by  typhoid  fever.  There 
was  not  a  servant  of  any  kind  on  the  place,  not  even 
a  farm-hand,  and  none  to  be  had,  because  it  was 
known  that  he  was  a  Southern  sympathizer.  His 


310  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

only  grown  son,  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  brave  as  Julius- 
Caesar,  was  in  the  Confederate  army,  and  the  rest  of 
his  children,  five  or  six  in  number,  were  all  smalL 
I  did  not  live  in  this  neighborhood  then,  but  I  know 
it  to  be  a  fact  that  not  a  single  neighbor  came  nigh 
the  old  gentleman  in  his  distress.  The  'sympa- 
thizers' were  afraid  to  come,  and  the  Unionists 
would  not  visit  a  rebel.  The  doctor,  even,  came  but 
once  or  twice  a  week.  Now,  what  did  this  old  aris- 
tocrat do?  Why,  he  just  did  everything.  He 
washed,  he  cooked,  he  ironed,  he  cleared  up  the 
house,  he  cut  the  wood,  he  brought  the  water,  he 
washed  and  dressed  the  children,  he  nursed  his  wife 
by  day  and  night,  he  attended  to  the  baby,  fed  it 
from  the  bottle,  made  up  the  beds,  swept  out,  dusted 
down,  and  finally,  getting  his  dander  up,  he  sent  to 
the  city  for  a  sewing  machine,  taught  himself  to  sew 
on  it,  bought  patterns,  and  cut  out  and  actually  made 
with  his  own  hands  clothes  for  the  children,  down 
even  to  a  dress  for  the  baby!*  Now,  if  that  ain't 
doing  well  for  a  worn-out  rebel  aristocrat,  I'd  like 
you  to  say  what  is  doing  well.  I  tell  you  that  the 
old  fellow  deserves  as  much  credit  as  the  most  gal- 
lant officer  in  the  Southern  army." 

As  Tom  Watson  was  not  himself  a  born  aristocrat,, 
this  deserved  and  disinterested  tribute  to  a  slave-lord 
tickled  me  prodigiously. 

"And  that  is  what  you  all  have  got  to  come  to  in 
the  South,"  added  Tom. 

This  did  not  tickle  me  at  all.     But  I  returned  to< 

*  An  actual  occurence. 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  311 

New  York  in  high  good-humor,  glowing  with  admir- 
ation for  the  faithful  Amy. 

Being  an  exotic,  and  old  at  that,  transplanting  did 
not  agree  with  me,  and  I  was  forced  to  get  back  to 
a  more  congenial  climate.  At  the  time  of  my  re- 
turn to  Virginia,  rny  wife  was  visiting  a  relation  in 
the  tide-water  region.  After  I  had  been  in  the  house 
a  few  moments  I  said,  very  naturally,  "  I  don't  see 
Amy.  Where's  Amy  ?" 

"  Deserted  me." 

"  Deserted  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  think  her  friends  more  to  blame  than 
she  is." 

"  We-ell9  if  ever  I  put  faith  in  a  nigger  again  you 
may  shoot  me." 

The  county  in  which  we  then  were  had  been  full 
of  negroes,  many  of  whom,  of  course,  had  gone  off ; 
still,  a  great  many  remained.  But  not  a  decent  nurse 
was  to  be  had  for  love,  money,  or  blarney.  So  we 
did  the  best  we  could  without  a  nurse,  and  as  the 
weather  was  warm  and  our  relative's  children  helped 
us  all  they  could,  we  got  along  very  well.  But  after 
a  time  we  had  to  return  to  Richmond.  (You  would 
like  me  to  call  it  the  "  rebel  capital,"  but  I  won't  do 

it.) 

Then  came  the  tug  of  war — to  me.  Every  Sun- 
day afternoon,  and  some  of  the  afternoons  during  the 
week,  I  had  to  "  mind  the  child."  Do  you  know 
what  that  is  ?  If  you  don't,  don't  try  to  find  out,  or 
let  anybody  force  you  to  find  out.  The  child  could 
walk  a  few  steps  at  a  time ;  she  might  have  walked 


312  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

farther,  a  great  deal  farther,  but,  to  vex  me,  she 
wouldn't.  So  I  had  to  tote  her  two-thirds  of  the 
time.  I  would  put  her  down,  and  in  the  sweetest- 
tones  would  say,  "  Walk  across,  meese  (miss) — walk 
for  farberins-parberins "  (abbreviation  for  farther). 
"  Walk  across,  that's  a  goody  girly-purly." 

The  thing  would  waddle  about  ten  paces,  and  then, 
holding  out  its  chubby  arms,  would  say  in  piteous 
accents,  "  Up-a-days." 

Accordingly,  I  upped  and  daysed  her,  and  toted 
her  until  my  left  ulna  and  radius  were  ready  to  break- 
Oh,  how  I  maledicted  the  faithless  Amy  and  objur- 
gated the  Yankees !  At  last  I  discovered  a  wood- 
yard  on  the  bank  of  the  canal,  and  then,  by  throw- 
ing chips  and  bits  of  pine  bark  and  brickbats  into  the 
water,  I  would  sometimes  keep  the  thing  quiet  and 
contented  for  twenty  consecutive  minutes.  By  that 
time  water-splashing  was  played  out,  and  I  would 
have  to  up-a-days  and  tote  her  again.  She  had  learnt 
to  say  "  teeple,"  and  if  she  pointed  at  the  Second 
Baptist  church  and  Dr.  Hoge's  church  once  and  said 
"  teeple,"  and  I  responded  once  by  pointing  at  Dr. 
Hoge's  church  and  the  Second  Baptist  church  and 
saying  "  teeple,"  we  pointed  and  said  "  teeple  "  ten 
thousand  times  apiece  during  those  long,  hot,  hor- 
rible, tiresome,  Amy-less  afternoons.  I  was  sick  of 
"  teeple."  If  a  commission  de  Lanatico  had  sat  upon 
me,  and  one  of  its  members  had  chanced  to  say 
"  steeple,"  I  would  have  gone  off  like  a  pack  of  fire- 
crackers, and  a  verdict  of  non  compos  would  have 
been  inevitable. 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  313 

Finding  that  we  must  have  a  nurse,  we  induced 
Amy  to  return,  or  rather  she  asked  us  to  let  her 
come  back,  for  she  loved  the  "  teeple  "-pointer.  It 
was  an  immense  relief,  but  she  was  not  the  Amy  to 
me  that  she  had  been. 

Finding  that  boarding  was  too  expensive,  we  rented 
rooms,  the  cheapest  we  could  find — two  rooms  and  a 
half  with  kitchen  privilege — for  sixty-five  dollars  a 
month  !  Very  soon  a  little  brother  introduced  him- 
self to  Miss  Up-a-days,  and  for  many  weeks  there- 
after Mrs.  Elder  was  exceedingly  sick.  Dark  weeks 
they  were,  I  assure  you.  To  get  bread  and  meat  and 
pay  that  sixty-five  dollars  a  month  rent  was  no  easy 
matter.  In  my  desperation  I  tried  to  obtain  the 
noble  position  of  sewing-machine  agent,  and  failed. 
I  projected  all  sorts  of  schemes,  and  actually  went  to 
see  a  great  railroad  president,  in  order  to  induce  him 
to  join  me  in  organizing  a  series  of  grand  excursions 
from  Northern  cities  to  the  battle-fields  of  Virginia. 
He  was  very  civil,  offered  me  a  free  pass  over  the 
whole  length  of  his  road  and  back  again,  but  as  for 
my  scheme  he  was  unable  to  perceive  it.  Eventually 
I  touched  bottom  by  determining  to  start  a  newspa- 
per, the  prospectus  of  which  I  wrote  out  in  full,  and 
now  have  in  my  possession,  but  nothing  less  than  two 
dollars  (the  subscription  price,  invariably  in  advance, 
of  my  paper)  would  induce  me  to  part  with  it. 

Just  at  this  terrible  time  we  discovered  Amanda. 
Ah,  Amanda  was  such  a  treasure  !  She  was  a  light 
gingercake-colored  girl,  with  hair  like  an  Indian's, 
only  it  waved,  and  she  had  had  her  dose  of  Yankees  ! 


314  SEEYANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

That  was  a  great  card  in  our  favor.  Running  away 
from  her  master,  she  had  found  at  Fortress  Monroe 
bad  shelter,  bad  food,  hardly  any  clothing,  not  very 
kind  treatment,  and  a  plenty  of  ague  and  fever,  with' 
mercury  and  salivation  to  match.  She  knew  her 
business  as  nurse  and  house-cleaner  thoroughly,  and 
we  knew  that  she  would  stick  to  us. 

So  she  did  for  a  good  long  time — eighteen  months,. 
If  we  had  not  gone  to  Blankton  to  live  she  might 
possibly  have  been  with  us  to  this  day.  But  the- 
habits  of  the  servants  of  Blankton  were  very  different 
from  the  habits  of  the  servants  in  other  parts  of  Yir- 
ginia.  The  first  thing  we  knew  Amanda  was  bawl- 
ing out  of  our  chamber  window  at  the  maid  in  the 
chamber  of  the  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street ;  and  when  we  rebuked  her  for  such  unseemly 
conduct,  she  received  the  rebuke  sullenly.  But  she- 
obeyed  our  wishes,  and  continued  to  be  a  most  ad- 
mirable servant.  Everybody  envied  us  such  a  trea- 
sure. We  praised  her,  we  petted  her,  did  everything 
for  her — gave  her  the  keys  and  made  her  mistress  of 
the  house.  And  a  most  excellent  mistress  she  made,, 
until — when  ? — until  she  got  religion  of  the  "  once- 
in-grace-always-in-grace "  kind.  Her  whole  charac- 
ter was  changed  within  a  few  weeks,  and  from  being: 
a  friend  rather  than  a  servant,  she  became  first  & 
worthless  huzzy,  and  then  an  actual  enemy. 

Particulars  of  her  misconduct  need  not  be  given. 
When  I  returned  to  Blankton,  after  a  long  absence, 
and  heard  of  her  shameful  and  cruel  behavior  to  Mrs. 
Elder,  my  arm  ached  up  to  my  shoulder  for  a  cowhide. 


SERYANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  315 

"  Surely  you  do  not  mean  the  inhuman  lash  ?" 

"  My  friend,  I  am  the  fragments  of  a  slave-driver,- 
with  a  fine  Southern  temper,  an  imperfect  education 
in  the  c  humanities,'  and  an  abiding  belief  that  the 
inhuman  lash  is  a  good  thing  for  whites  as  well  as- 
black  s,  and  will  continue  to  be  until  the  last  vestige 
of  the  originial  barbarism  of  mankind  has  been  erad- 
icated." 

"  You  brute." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am." 

So  we  left  Blankton,  and  we  left  our  treasure,. 
Amanda.  Strange  to  say,  nobody  coveted  that 
treasure,  and  she  had  finally  to  go  into  a  distant 
State  to  get  employment. 

After  our  separation  from  Amanda  servant-gals- 
came  thick  and  fast.  The  list,  in  brief,  ran  some- 
what as  follows :  At  Greenville,  Kate  ;  pretty  good, 
well-behaved,  and  capable,  but  her  eyes  got  sore  and 
we  had  to  give  her  up.  Then  Mary  Ellen,  with  no 
particular  faults,  but  miserably  green,  gawky  and  in- 
competent ;  had  her  one  month.  Then  Ellen ;  no 
account.  Then,  at  Drinkly  Courthouse,  Lizzy,  who 
stayed  with  us  twenty-four  hours,  and  told  Mrs. 
Elder  that  she  "  seen  from  her  face  that  she  couldn't 
please  her."  Then  Laura,  an  impudent  wretch,  who 
stayed  half  her  time  in  the  kitchen  or  anywhere  away 
from  the  scene  of  her  duties,  and  who  wound  up  by 
telling  my  wife,  early  one  morning,  before  breakfast, 
that  "  if  she  expected  her  to  mind  that  child  all  day 
Sunday,  she  was  mistaken."  Off  she  went,  and  we 
swapped  the  devil  for  a  witch,  her  successor  being 


316  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

still  another  Ellen,  a  yaller — not  yellow — square- 
built,  awkward,  slow,  hideous,  filthy,  diseased,  and 
utterly  good-for-nothing  stupe,  of  whom  we  would 
gladly  have  got  rid  months  before  we  did  if  any  hu- 
man being  could  have  been  found  to  put  in  her  place. 
At  length,  by  moving  to  a  distance,  we  procured 
Jane,  a  slim,  thin,  fourteen-year-old  charcoal  chit, 
lazy  to  a  degree,  and  rejoicing  in  a  sore  finger  the 
whole  time  we  had  her,  from  June  till  October. 
Jane's  mother  kept  her  to  her  duty,  but  about  the 
time  she  began  to  know  enough  to  be  of  some  use, 
away  she  went,  her  finger  still  sore.  Then  nobody 
for  a  long  time.  Then  Roberta  for  three  weeks. 
She  did  very  well  for  one  of  her  age,  but  went  home 
one  Saturday  "  to  get  her  clothes,"  and  that  was  the 
last  we  ever  saw  of  her.  A  few  servant-gal-less 
weeks  ensued,  and  then  turned  up  Melinda,  a  dirty, 
lazy,  but  good-tempered  creature,  who  actually  re- 
mained an  entire  year.  She  began  to  be  good  for 
•something,  when  one  stormy  night  her  stepfather 
<jame,  in  a  state  of  beastly  intoxication,  and  insisted 
on  taking  her  home,  nine  miles  away,  through  the 
pouring  winter  rain.  And,  what  is  worse,  he  wanted 
her  to  walk  !  We  found  her  crying  bitterly,  and  it 
was  a  long  time  before  she  would  tell  us  what  was 
the  matter,  so  afraid  was  she  of  the  drunken  wretch. 
When  at  last  she  did  tell  us,  I  went  to  the  back-door, 
called  that  stepfather  out  of  the  kitchen,  where  he 
lay  in  a  drunken  sleep,  and  told  him,  in  my  mild 
Southern  way,  that  if  he  was  not  off  that  plantation 
in  five  minutes  I  would  blow  his  besotted  brains  out. 


SERVANTGALISM  IK  VIRGINIA.  31T 

He  went,  but  in  a  few  days  sent  her  mother  for  her ; 
and  although  she  had  another  bitter  cry  because  she 
did  not  want  to  go  at  all,  she  had  to  go.  This  is  a 
sample  of  negro  stepfatherism  in  Virginia.  I  could 
give  many  others  if  space  permitted,  but  the  above 
will  suffice. 

You  will  have  observed  that  in  several  cases  we 
were  allowed  to  keep  girls  until  they  became  familiar 
with  the  duties  of  nurse  and  house-servant,  and,  this 
gained,  they  were  whisked  away  by  their  parents. 
Agreeable  task,  to  train  the  youthful  African,  and 
have  your  training  for  your  pains !  And  to  pass  one's 
life  in  training  a  series  of  }routhful  Africans,  how  re- 
munerative and  highly  improving  to  the  temper ! 
To  sit  down  servantless  after  some  sudden  bereave- 
ment of  the  Melinda-Jane-Roberta  kind,  with  a  world 
of  house-work  upon  you  and  nobody  to  help  you,  and 
to  look  forward  through  a  long  vista  of  just  such  be- 
reavements following  faster  and  faster — ah,  this  is  the 
bliss,  this  the  ripe,  red  watermelony  core  of  servant- 
galism  in  the  South !  Oh,  who  would  not  live  alway, 
and  who  could  welcome  the  tomb,  under  those  pecu- 
liar circumstances  ?  I  put  it  to  you  of  the  North  to 
say. 

Pauline  succeeded  Melinda.  A  quicker,  more 
teachable,  neater  servant  we  never  had.  An  old 
grandmother,  who  had  been  the  slave  of  a  gentleman, 
made  Pauline  stay  with  us  when  she  often  wanted  to 
go  away,  and  made  us  keep  her  when  we  longed 
often  to  get  rid  of  her ;  for  Pauline,  besides  having 
two  fathers,  who  bothered  us  a  good  deal,  was  about 


318  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

twice  a  week  literally  possessed  of  a  devil.  Such 
-sulks  on  the  slightest  provocation  or  no  provocation, 
and  such  intolerable,  unheard-of  insolence  !  The  en- 
treaties of  her  grandmother,  who  had  six  other 
grandchildren  to  provide  for,  without  help  from 
either  of  Pauline's  fathers — one  of  whom  has  since 
married  again,  and  threatens  to  dump  six  more  chil- 
dren down  upon  his  old  mother-in-law — her  grand- 
mother's entreaties  alone  saved  Pauline,  not  only  from 
dismissal,  but  from  punishment — "  correction,"  as  we 
used  to  call  it  down  this  way. 

Furious  at  some  particularly  unbearable  insult  to 
Mrs.  Elder,  I  sent  for  Pauline  to  come  to  my  private 
room,  intending  to — ah! — "correct"  her,  as  her 
grandmother  had  requested  me  to  do  whenever  she 
deserved  it.  She  came.  I  showed  her  the  inhuman 
lash — a  small  cherry  switch,  and  cherry,  you  know,  is 
brittle.  She  did  not  tremble,  but  she  looked  as  if 
she  felt  very  badly  arid  expected  to  feel  a  great  deal 
worse  presently.  /  trembled — not,  however,  with 
fright ;  but,  remembering  that  if,  Othello-like,  I  did 
but  lift  "  this  puny  arm,"  the  consequences  might  be 
more  serious  than  I  contemplated  or  desired,  I  re- 
strained my  fine  slave-driving  temper,  allowed  my 
puny  arm  to  subside,  and  in  a  low  voice  gave  Pauline 
just  such  a  lecture  as  I  would  have  given  one  of  -my 
own  children.  The  result  was  that  she  ceased  to  sulk 
&nd  to  be  possessed  of  the  devil  oftener  than  once  a 
week,  and  in  her  anxiety  to  befriend  me,  jumped  out 
of  bed  one  frosty  morning  and  went  in  her  bare  feet 
to  gather  chips  to  build  my  fire  with.  Poor  Pauline ! 


6ERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  319 

An  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism  ensued,  as  if 
her  aged  grandmother  had  not  trials  enough  already, 
.and — would  you  believe  it? — Mrs.  Elder  is  deter- 
mined to  have  Pauline  back  as  soon  as  she  gets  well. 

Next  in  order  comes  Susan,  a  middle-aged  woman 
and  a  most  excellent  servant.  At  the  end  of  three 
weeks  she  left  us,  to  go  to  another  family,  who  had 
hired  her  previous  to  her  engagement  with  us.  Then 
Dilsy,  a  nappy-headed,  frowsy,  lagging,  ignorant  and 
unspeakably  sluttish  caricature  of  humanity,  with 
whom  the  list  might  well  end.  But  it  does  not. 

About  a  month  ago  we  moved  back  to  the  scene  of 
my  toting  and  my  "  teeple  "-talk,  and  for  three  weeks 
we  have  been  housekeeping.  During  that  time  we 
have  had,  of  cooks,  one — who  can't  make  bread,  but 
is  a  very  well-conducted  person,  although  she  has  a 
mulatto  son,  a  line-looking  fellow,  who  is  studying 
for  the  ministry;  another  mulatto  son,  who  "wuks  in 
de  fac'ry,"  and  a  mulatto  daughter,  Mattie,  barely 
grown  and  quite  pretty,  who  goes  to  school  in  the 
morning  and  sifts  cinders  out  of  all  the  neighbors' 
ash-piles  in  the  evening,  in  order  to  help  out  her 
mother's  fire  and  save  wood.  Of  nurses  we  have  had 
three — to-wit :  First,  Adelaide,  who  left  at  the  end 
-of  the  week,  and  wanted  to  leave  in  the  middle  of  it, 
because  Mrs.  Elder  ventured  to  speak  disrespectfully 
to  her  on  account  of  her  being  absent  without  leave 
at  the  very  time  of  day  when  she  was  most  needed ; 
-second,  Ellen  Randolph,  a  highly  respectable  old 
woman  and  a  lifelong  house-servant,  who  came  for 
four  days  only,  to  tide  us  over  a  servant-gal  vacuum ; 


320  SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA. 

third,  Penelope,  a  doleful  young  woman,  who  takes 
an  hour  to  do  anything,  and  then  does  not  half  do  it, 
because  she  does  not  know  how. 

This  foots  up  a  total  of  eighteen  servant-gals  in 
eight  years,  which  is  a  better  showing  than  nine- 
tenths  of  our  friends  can  make.  As  both  the  cook 
and  the  nurse  we  now  have  are  to  leave  us  next 
Wednesday,  and  as  Penelope  does  not  infuriate  me 
more  than  twenty  times  a  day,  we  are  quite  happy 
and  contented ;  for  to  be  able  to  look  forward  five 
whole  days  with  an  assurance  of  having  servants  of 
some  sort  during  all  that  stretch  of  time  is  happiness 
here  below,  in  Virginia. 

Since  our  return  we  have  been  visited  by  Amy  and 
Ann,  and  the  entire  retinue  of  old  family  servants, 
male  as  well  as  female,  all  of  whom  have  been  very 
kind  and  respectful.  This  has  put  us,  in  a  better 
frame.  Life  does  not  present  itself  to  us  quite  so 
darkly  as  before,  albeit  it  still  promises  to  be  an  ever- 
revolving  kaleidoscope  of  colored  servant-gals,  here 
to-day  and  gone  to-morrow.  Amy  and  Ann  really  talk 
as  if  they  want  to  come  back  to  us,  but  of  course  they 
can't,  because  they  are  bound  by  other  engagements. 
I  am  not  so  excitable  as  I  was.  My  temper  is  im- 
proving, my  shirts  are  untorn  and  the  hair  is  begin- 
ning to  grow  again  on  my  head.  Mrs.  Elder  dare 
not  for  her  life  allude  to  the  subject ;  but,  as  Lizzy 
said  at  Drinkly  Courthouse,  I  "seen  from  her  eye" 
that  she  indulges  the  hope  that  I  will  ultimately  be 
restored  to  that  amiability  which  characterized  me  in 
the  halcyon  years  before  the  war,  when  I  carried  hab- 


SERVANTGALISM  IN  VIRGINIA.  321 

itually  a  revolver  in  one  pocket  for  my  male,  and  a 
cowhide  in  the  other  pocket  for  my  female  slaves. 

Here,  were  I  a  literary  New  England  woman- 
writer  for  the  -  —  Monthly  (as  I  hope  to  be  in 
another  and  better  world),  I  might  fitly  point  this 
o'er-true  tale  and  adorn  it  with  a  moral.  But,  sexed 
and  Southern-sectioned  as  I  am,  I  cannot  do  that.  All 
I  can  do  is  to  offer  a  fewT  closing  remarks. 

I  am  no  longer  a  rebel.  The  situation  has  accepted 
me,  and  I  am  devoted  to  the  Union,  I  think.  In 
theory,  if  not  in  practice,  I  am  as  radical  as  Charles 
Sumner  himself;  no  longer  believe  in  slavery  or  any 
other  dead  thing,  and  am  accustomed  to  take  the 
broadest  views  of  all  subjects.  Keeping  fully  abreast 
of  the  age,  I  read  all  the  books  of  all  the  ablest 
modern  thinkers  in  the  school  of  progress,  and  can, 
as  a  rule,  attribute  every  event,  good  or  bad,  to 
"large  general  causes,"  as  Mr.  Buckle  would  say. 

Still,  Inrmo  su'iu, ;  and  when  I  see  my  mother,  my 
wife,  my  sister,  my  cousins,  and  the  wives,  mothers, 
sisters  and  cousins  of  all  my  friends,  reduced  to 
menials,  and  compelled  to  drudge  with  no  chance  of 
escape,  no  prospect  of  betterment,  but  every  certainty 
of  the  reverse  (for  the  next  generation  of  negroes 
will  be  infinitely  more  unmanageable  than  the  pres- 
ent, and  the  plaguy  Democrats  will  not  let  John  Chi- 
naman come  in) — when  1  see  this,  I  say,  I  am  utterly 
unable  to  take  an  impersonal,  philosophical  view  of 
the  matter.  On  the  contrary,  I  grit  what  teeth  I 
have  left,  and  consign  the  Yankees  to  perdition  with 
all  the  barbaric  vehemence  of  my  vulgar  and  fero- 
cious Virginan  nature. 
21 


THE   PAWNEE  WAR 

A  KEMINISCENCE. 


IN  the  southwestern  corner  of  the  Capitol  Square 
there  is  a  truncated  brick  tower,  modelled  appa- 
rently after  the  design  of  the  Tower  of  Babel,  as 
conceived  by  the  artists  who  illustrate  Sunday-school 
books,  except  that  the  sides  of  the  superimposed 
layers  do  not  slope,  but  run  vertically  up  a  distance 
of  ten  or  fifteen  feet,  when  they  are  suddenly  con- 
tracted, and  another  layer  of  lesser  diameter  begins. 
Not  above  forty  feet  rises  this  humble  and  ugly 
structure.  On  the  top  of  it  there  is  a  homely 
wooden  belfry,  and  in  that  belfry  a  large  bell  hangs. 
In  peace  times  this  bell  struck  the  hours  of  the  day 
and  night,  gave  the  alarm  of  fire,  and  called  the 
truant  "Alligators  "  *  from  their  haunts  in  the  bar- 

*  For  many  years  the  members  of  tbe  Virginia  House  of  Dele- 
gates were  nicknamed  "Alligators."  The  origin  of  the  term  is 
said  to  be  this  :  An  uncouth,  roughly  dressed  Dutchman  one  day 
attempted  to  make  his  way  into  the  hall,  but  was  met  by  the 
doorkeeper  with  the  query,  "  What  do  you  want  ?  "  "I  vants  to 
go  in  dere."  ".Whom  do  you  want  to  see ?  "  "I  don't  vants  to 
see  nobody:  I  vants  to  go  in."  "You  can't  go  in,  sir;  the 
House  is  in  session,  and  it  is  against  the  rules.  If  you  want  to 
see  any  member  I  will  call  him  out."  "I  vants  to  go  in,"  per- 
sisted the  Dutchman.  "I  tell  you  again,  you  can't  go  in,''  re- 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR.  323 

rooms  and  faro-banks  when  there  was  a  close  vote  in 
the  General  Assembly — once  the  House  of  Bur- 
gesses— or  important  public  business  to  be  dis- 
patched. On  rare  occasions,  such  as  the  John 
Brown  excitement,  the  bell  summoned  the  military 
population  of  the  city  to  arms. 

A  room  in  the  lower  part  of  the  little  brick  tower 
was  used  as  a  guard-house,  as  well  for  the  policemen 
of  Mayor  Mayo  (whose  business  was  that  precisely 
of  other  policemen)  as  for  a  squad  of  the  State 
Guard,  who  acted  as  sentries  about  the  Capitol  and 
watched  over  the  Penitentiary  convicts  employed  in 
grading  the  walks,  and  ornamenting  and  improving 
the  grass-plots,  shrubbery,  and  trees  that  adorn  the 
Square.  The  State  Guard  would  cry  very  small  in 
•comparison  with  the  Coldstreams,  or  the  Guarde  1m- 
periale.  They  numbered  less  than  a  hundred  men ; 
but  they  were  well  organized,  drilled,  and  equipped, 
and  commanded  by  a  very  competent  officer  in  the 
person  of  Captain  Dimmock,  formerly  of  the  United 
States  army.  This  single  company  of  infantry  con- 
tained every  regular  soldier  Virginia  had  at  her 
command  when,  true  to  her  motto,  Sic  Semper  Ty- 

torted  the  doorkeeper  angrily.  "But  I  ish  a  Alligator."  "A 
what  ?  "  cried  the  puzzled  doorkeeper.  ' '  I  ish  a  Alligator  mine- 
self. "  The  doorkeeper  stared  in  amazement.  "What  did  you 
say — a  Alligator  ?  "  "Yaw,"  roared  the  now  excited  Dutchman  ; 
"  I  ish  one  o'  dem  Alligators  from  the  Kounty  of  Wit !  "  A  light 
dawned  on  the  doorkeeper's  mind.  "Now  I  understand  you," 
he  exclaimed;  "you  are  a  delegate  from  the  county  of  Wythe. 
Walk  in,  sir."  Ever  since  the  term  "Alligator"  has  been  a 
household  word  in  Virginia. 


324  THE  PAWNEE  WAR. 

rannis,  she  raised  her  spear  against  the  despot  lately 
enthroned  in  Washington. 

About  one  o'clock,  P.  M.,  on  the  Sunday  succeed- 
ing the  passage  of  the  ordinance  of  secession,  a  sol- 
dier ascended  the  wooden  steps  under  the  bell  in  the 
little  brick  tower,  seized  the  heavy  clapper  in  hi& 
hand,  made  two  hard  strokes,  paused  an  instant,  and 
then  made  a  third.  Sullen  and  deep  the  notes- 
floated  out  in  the  balmy  spring  air. 

Far  and  wide  the  tocsin  rang  over  the  city,  then 
busy  in  the  worship  of  the  Prince  of  Peace.  The 
clergymen  of  the  many  churches  hard  by  the  Capitol 
Square,  who  that  morning  for  the  first  time  had 
ceased  to  pray  publicly  for  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  were  uttering  the  after-sermon  peti- 
tion, "  Grant,  O  Loud,  that  the  words  that  we  have 
this  day  heard,"  when  "  the  outward  ears "  of  their 
kneeling  congregations  were  smitten  by  the  boding 
sounds  from  the  brick  tower.  Ere  the  prayer  was 
ended  more  than  half  the  congregation  had  disap- 
peared. Scarcely  a  man  remained  in  the  churches. 
The  dismay  of  the  clergymen  at  witnessing  this- 
sudden  depletion  of  their  flocks  was  surpassed  only 
by  the  chill  that  struck  to  the  hearts  of  the  women 
when  their  "affrayed  eyes"  were  opened,  and  fa- 
thers, husbands,  sons,  brothers,  and  lovers  were 
missing. 

Father  of  Mercy !  was  it  possible  that  the  hire- 
lings of  Lincoln  had  so  soon  gained  the  -vicinity  of 
the  capital  of  the  Old  Dominion,  and  must  priceless- 
blood  be  shed  immediately,  and  on  the  Sabbath  day  I 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR.  325 

What  else  could  this  alarm  and  the  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  the  men  mean?  How  quickly  the 
blooming  cheeks  paled,  and  the  pulses  in  the  slender 
wrists  went  cold  and  slow ! 

There  was  no  one  in  the  city,  familiar  with  "big 
wars,"  to  command 

"  Silence  that  dreadful  bell!  " 

The  soldier  with  the  clapper  in  his  hand  manfully 
anviled  the  resonant  metal,  and  loud  note  succeeded 
hollow  murmur  until  the  whole  April  air  seemed 
vibrating.  Thousands  of  lips  were  pleading  for  in- 
formation, and,  for  a  time,  none  was  found  wise 
enough  to  answer.  Some  terrible  thing  had  hap- 
pened, or  was  about  to  happen  on  the  instant. 
What  was  it?  What  could  it  be  ?  "  Rumor,  painted 
full  of  tongues,"  was  never  so  busy  as  during  the 
half  hour  after  the  churches  were  closed  and  the 
congregations  dispersed.  But  presently  the  true 
story  was  told,  and  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  in 
hurried,  sometimes  trembling  accents :  The,  Governor 
of  Virginia  had  received  official  intelligence  that  the 
Yankee  sloop-of-war  "Pawnee"  had  passed  City 
Point,  at  the  confluence  of  the  A.ppomattox  and 
James  rivers,  and  was  steaming  hard  for  Richmond, 
ivith  the  intention  of  shelling  it  and  burning  it  to 
to  the  ground  ! 

Monstrous  intelligence !  City  Point  was  sixty 
miles  away ;  the  river  was  narrow  and  tortuous ;  in 
many  places  the  channel  ran  so  close  to  the  banks 
that  the  felling  of  a  single  tree  would  have  arrested 
the  progress  of  any  vessel;  besides,  the  Pawnee  was 


326  THE  PAWNEE  WAR. 

a  wooden  ship  (monitors  jet  lay  dormant  in  the 
brain  of  Ericsson),  and  the  steep  bluffs  on  the  farms- 
of  Drewry  and  Chaffin,  which  afterwards  served  the 
city  so  well,  afforded  admirable  vantage  ground  for 
field-pieces  and  perfect  shelter  for  marksmen.  "What 
gunboat  would  ever  run  such  a. gauntlet  for  the  mad 
chance  of  shelling  a  city  of  forty  thousand  inhabi- 
tants ?  The  foolhardiest  midshipman  in  Uncle  Sam's 
service,  even  when  crazed  with  sweet  champagne 
extracted  from  the  pippins  of  the  Jerseys  and  medi- 
cated in  the  cellars  of  the  Five  Points,  never  dreamed 
of  so  insane  a  project.  All  this  is  very  plain,  now 
that  three  eventful  years  overlie  that  memorable  Sun- 
day in  Richmond.  It  was  not  so  clear  to  the  excited 
inhabitants,  new  to  all  the  strategy  and  appliances  of 
war.  A  few  saw  the  absurdity  of  the  matter;  but 
the  men  made  ready  to  meet  the  enemy,  come  how 
he  might,  though  all  felt  that  this  aquatic  onset  was 
a  most  ungenerous  and  contemptible  mode  of  attack- 
ing a  people  accustomed  only  to  dry-land  engage- 
ments with  partridges  and  squirrels.  The  companies 
of  the  First  regiment  of  Virginia  volunteers  repaired 
promptly  to  their  drill-rooms,  and  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time  were  ready  for  marching  orders. 
^Randolph's  battery  of  light  howitzers  was  equally 
prompt,  and  so  was  the  only  troop  of  horse  the  city 
could  muster — the  "Governor's  Mounted  Guard,"  as- 
it  was  called.  All  told,  there  were  perhaps  be- 
tween six  and  seven  hundred  organized  men,  most 
of  whom  were  as  familiar  with  military  forms  as 
volunteers  in  time  of  peace  ever  are.  These  were 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR.  327 

prepared  for  any  duty  they  might  be  called  on  to 
perform  in  less  than  an  hour  from  the  time  the  bell 
began  tolling. 

There  were  some  affecting  scenes.  Mothers,  sis- 
ters, and  sweethearts  came  down  to  the  drill-rooms, 
to  interchange  a  parting  word  with  the  young  men, 
and  to  fill  their  haversacks  with  something  good  to 
eat.  These  tender,  inexperienced  girls  beheld  in 
imagination  the  manly  forms  of  their  loved  ones  torn 
and  mangled  by  pitiless  fragments  of  Yankee  shells, 
soon  to  explode  over  the  doomed  city,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  serried  ranks  of  infantry.  No  wonder  the  fine 
young  fellows  felt  a  tremor  about  the  heart  and  a  suf- 
fusion of  the  eyes  which  ill  became  veteran  soldiers  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  John  Brown  war.  No  wonder 
they  wished  the  "  women  would  go  home  and  quit 
bothering."  But  these  partings,  affecting  as  they 
were,  sank  into  insignificance  when  compared  wTith 
the  solemn  and  energetic  earnestness  of  the  male  citi- 
zens who  did  not  belong  to  the  volunteer  companies, 
but  felt  it,  nevertheless,  to  be  their  bounden  duty  to 
defend  their  city,  their  families,  and  their  properties 
from  the  ravages  of  the  ruthless  and  watery  invader. 
There  was  a  gathering  in  hot  haste  of  these,  which 
might  well  have  vied  with  that  in  Belgium's  capital, 
besung  by  the  Lord  George  Gordon  Noel  Byron. 
What  weapons  did  they  not  seize? — fowling-pieces 
mortally  oxydized ;  immemorial  duck-guns,  of  pro- 
digious bore ;  ancient  falchions  that  had  flashed  in 
the  eyes  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown  ;  pistols  of  every 
conceivable  calibre,  and  of  all  possible  shades  of  in- 


328  THE  PAWNEE  WAR. 

utility ;  and,  in  one  instance  at  least,  a  veritable 
blunderbuss,  so  encompassed  with  verdigris  that  it 
passed  for  a  cucumber  of  precocious  growth  !  All 
these,  loaded  or  unloaded,  with  or  without  caps  or 
flints,  to  fight  a  gunboat  mounted  with  ten-inch  Co- 
lurnbiads  !  Everything  that  could  shoot  or  cut  was 
called  into  requisition,  and  Sutherland  the  gunsmith, 
albeit  it  was  Sunday,  was  called  upon  to  open  his 
store,  and,  complying,  did  a  rousing  business,  dispos- 
ing of  nearly  all  his  stock  of  arms  and  fixed  amuni- 
tion  in  two  short  hours — the  result  of  which  was  the 
enhancement,  the  very  next  day,  of  revolvers,  bowie- 
knives,  dirks,  and  even  long-bladed  clasp-knives,  to 
the  extent  of  full  fifty  per  cent. 

Heavier  metal  than  any  Sutherland  had  to  sell  was 
needed  in  the  great  trial  at  hand,  and  of  this  the 
citizen  heroes  were  well  aware.  Accordingly,  a 
party  of  them  rushed  to  the  Virginia  armory,  and 
out  of  the  large  store  of  ancient  ordnance  there  ac- 
cumulated selected  one  of  a  pair  of  magnificent 
bronze  guns,  quaintly  but  beautifully  embellished, 
which  had  been  presented  to  the  State  by  the  Count 
de  Kochambeau  in  the  name  of  the  French  govern- 
ment. This  rare  and  costly  piece,  weighing  probably 
two  tons,  was  by  some  strange  art,  which  the  frenzy 
of  the  moment  suggested,  hoisted  upon  a  dray,  or 
some  other  strong  vehicle.  A  mixed  multitude  of 
horses,  mules,  and  men  were  hurriedly  gathered,  the 
motley  motive  power  applied,  and  the  whole  party 
dashed  up  the  hill  to  Main  street,  and  then  down  the 
street  at  a  terrific  pace,  until  they  reached  the  Cus- 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR.  329 

torn  House,  and  there  the  brave  old  gun,  indignant 
at  the  rough,  unmilitary  usage  it  had  received,  in- 
continently leaped  out  of  the  dray  into  the  street, 
where  it  lay  for  many  weeks,  a'  stranded  Triton 
among  the  schools  of  martial  minnows  that  floated 
by  it,  much  wondering  at  its  great  size  and  the  pur- 
pose for  which  it  had  been  placed  in  that  position — 
the  majority  being  of  opinion  that  it  was  put  there 
to  defend,  not  the  Custom  House,  for  that  contained 
no  treasure,  but  the  Virginia  Banks,  just  opposite. 
How  this  was  to  be  effected  was  not  clear,  seeing  that 
the  gun  was  on  the  ground  and  there  was  probably 
neither  a  ball  nor  a  cartridge  in  the  city  to  fit  it ;  but 
the  military  critics  of  those  days  were  mostly  from 
the  country,  and  not  familiar,  as  thousands  of  them 
now  are,  with  the  manual  of  heavy  artillery. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  infantry,  light 
artillery  and  horse  waited  for  the  upsetting  of  the 
big  gun.  By  no  means.  Long  before  they  had 
marched  off,  under  what  commander-in-chief  history 
has  failed  to  record,  in  the  direction  of  Rocketts — the 
euphonious  title  of  the  lower  part  of  the  city — near 
the  wharves  and  the  landings  of  the  sea-going  steamers 
that  then  plied  between  Richmond  and  the  principal 
maritime  cities  of  the  North.  Meantime  every 
""coign  of  vantage"  was  occupied  by  anxious  watch- 
ers. Wives,  whose  tearful  weight  had  just  relieved  the 
throttled  necks  of  husbands  already  heavily  freighted 
with  horse-pistols,  bowie-knives,  brandy-flasks,  and 
cold  ham  and  biscuit,  were  now  recovered  from  their 
-"  wounds/'  and  straining  their  eyes  from  the  upper 


330  THE  PAWNEE  WAR. 

windows  and  porches  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  dreaded  Pawnee.  The  top  of  the  Capitol,  the 
tops  of  houses,  church  steeples,  the  "  observatories," 
as  they  are  unscientifically  called,  of  the  hotels,  and 
every  high  point  in  and  around  the  city,  were  alive 
with  human  beings.  Church  Hill  in  particular, 
which  overlooks  the  river  at  Rocketts,  was  swarming 
with  human  beings  of  both  sexes,  all  ages,  and  every 
complexion,  for  the  negroes  were  now  as  anxious  and 
excited  as  their  masters  and  mistresses. 

It  was  whispered  that  the  Grand  Army  of  Rich- 
mond intended  to  "  make  a  stand  "  at  Rocketts,  and 
give  battle  to  the  Pawnee,  for  it  was  taken  for 
granted  that  that  vessel  would  make  fast  to  the  wharf 
before  she  opened  her  broadsides  or  gave  tongue 
even  to  the  pivot  rifle  in  the  bow.  This  was  an  ad- 
ditional incentive  to  the  dense  crowd  on  Church  Hill 
to  remain  just  where  they  were,  at  least  until  the 
enemy  hove  in  sight.  The  army  did  make  a  stand 
at  Rocketts,  but  it  was  merely  a  halt  for  refresh- 
ments— fresh  quids  of  tobacco.  The  line  of  glitter- 
ing bayonets  was  soon  again  in  motion,  the  cannon 
rumbled,  the  war-horses  kicked  up  a  mighty  dust,, 
and  the  column  quickly  wound  over  the  hill  and  was 
out  of  sight.  Still  the  multitudes  on  the  towers  and 
house-tops  watched  and  waited.  Like  a  serpentine 
silver  band  the  river  lay  stretched  before  them,  miles 
and  miles  away,  without  a  cloud  to  dim  its  tranquil 
argent  sheen.  Far  or  near,  none  could  descry  the 
Pawnee.  The  sun  sank  low,  and  at  length  set  in 
the  peaceful  heavens.  Still  no  Pawnee.  Twilight 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR.  331 

deepened  into  night,  the  church  bells  called  the 
people  from  the  hills  and  house-tops  to  prayers — 
prayers  of  gratitude  for  deliverance  from  "  the  pes- 
tilence that  steamet/i  at  noon-day,"  but  doth  not 
often  venture  up  narrow,  shallow,  and  unknown 
channels  when  thick  darkness  covereth  the  earth. 
The  Pawnee  never  came.  The  troops  bivouacked 
that  night  in  the  fields  on  the  river-shore,  some  five 
or  six  miles  below  the  city,  and  inarched  back  the 
next  day  to  resume  the  exercises  which  were  to  fit 
them  for  actual  service,  of  which  they  were  destined 
to  see  far  more  than  they  dreamed.  The  night  was 
mild,  and  the  march,  the  bivouac,  and  the  shell  prac- 
tice in  which  the  Howitzers  indulged  the  following 
morning,  were  regarded  by  the  "  boys  "  as  a  jolly  frolic. 
No  accident  and  but  one  untoward  event  happened. 
A  son  of  Dr.  Beverley  Tucker,  Professor  in  the  Rich- 
mond Medical  College,  contracted  that  night  a  pul- 
monary disease  which  speedily  proved  fatal.  Young 
Tucker  was,  in  Virginia  at  least,  the  first  victim  of 
the  war. 

Thus  began,  progressed,  and  ended  the  famous 
"  Pawnee  war/'  We  may  laugh  at  it  now,  for  there 
were  many  laughable  things  about  it.  Not  the  least 
of  these  was  the  consternation  produced  in  the 
country  about  Richmond  by  the  exaggerated  reports 
carried  out  of  the  corporate  limits  by  self-elected 
couriers.  Among  other  wild  stories,  was  one  to  the 
effect  that  the  Pawnee  Indians  had  come  down  -the 
Central  railroad,  taken  possession  of  the  city,  and 
were  scalping  and  tomahawking  the  citizens  at  a. 


THE  PAWNEE  WAR. 


frighiful  rate.  This  story  was  actually  believed,  and 
many  agitated  ladies  fled  to  the  house  of  a  daughter 
of  General  Richardson,  the  Adjutant-General  of  Vir- 
ginia, as  if  there  wras  a  charm  about  that  powerful 
title  wrhich  ensured  safety  to  all  its  owner's  relatives 
and  friends.  Yes,  we  may  laugh  at  the  Pawrnee  war, 
and  own  frankly  that  there  was  something  of  a  panic 
that  day  in  Richmond.  But  then,  as  in  times  more 
alarming,  when  the  tocsin  again  sounded,  and  with 
better  cause,  Richmond  shewed  fight,  and  doubtless 
would  have  made  it  had  there  been  occasion.  If 
that  was  her  first  panic,  it  was  her  last.  A  year 
afterwards  one  hundred  thousand  men,  and  thrice 
one  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  threatened  her,  with 
scarce  an  earthwork  between  them  and  their  prey; 
but  she  was  calm  and  smiling,  for  Lee  confronted 
the  host  of  her  foes,  and  Jackson  was  coming. 


FLIZE. 

BY  Mozis  ADDUMS. 


I  HATE  a  fli. 
A  fli  is  got  no  manners.     He  ain't  no  gentle- 
inun.     He's  an  introoder,  don't  send  in  no  kard,  nor 
ax  a  interduckshun,  nor  don't  knok  at  the  frunt  door, 
and  nuver,  nuver  thinx  uv  takin  off  his  hat. 

Fust  thing  you  know  he  is  in  bed  with  you  and 
up  your  nose — tho  what  he  wants  up  thar  is  a  mistry 
— and  he  invites  hisself  to  breakfast,  and  sets  down 
in  yore  butter,  thont  brushin  his  pants. 

He  helps  hisself  to  sugar,  and  meat,  and  molasses, 
and  bred,  and  persurves,  and  vinnegy,  and  every- 
thing— don't  wait  for  no  invitashum.  He's  got  a 
good  appytite,  and  jist  as  sune  eat  one  thing  a& 
anuther. 

'Taint  no  use  to  challenge  him  for  taking  liberties;, 
he  kepes  up  a  hostile  korrespondence  with  you,, 
wether  ur  not,  and  shoots  hisself  at  you  like  a  bullit, 
and  he  nuver  misses,  nuver. 

He'll  kiss  yore  wife  20  times  a  day,  and  zizz  and 
zoo,  and  ridikule  you  if  you  say  a  word,  and  he'd 
Hither  you'd  slap  at  him  than  not,  coze  he's  a  dodger 


334  FLIZE. 

uv  the  dodginest  kind.  Every  time  you  slap,  you 
don't  slap  him,  but  slap  yo'self,  and  he  zizzes  arid 
pints  the  hind  leg  uv  skorn  at  you  till  he  aggrevates 
you  to  distrackshin. 

He  glories  in  lightin  every  pop  on  the  exact  spot 
whar  you  druv  him  from,  wich  pruves  the  intenshun 
to  teeze  you.  Don't  tell  me  he  ain't  got  no  mind ; 
he  knows  what  he  is  arf  ter.  He's  got  sense,  and  too 
much  ov  it,  though  he  nuver  wrent  to  school  a  day  in 
his  life  except  in  the  sugar  dish.  He's  a  mean,  mil- 
lignunt,  owdashus,  premedditated  cuss. 

His  mother  nuver  paddled  him  with  a  slipper  in 
her  life.  His  morrals  was  niglecktid,  and  he  lacks  a 
good  deal  of  humility  mitely.  He  ain't  bashful  a 
bit,  and  I  doubts  if  he  blushes  ofting.  In  fact,  he 
was  nuver  fetched  up  at  all. 

He  was  born  full  grown ;  he  don't  get  old,  neither. 
Things  gits  old,  but  he  nuver  gits  old — and  he's  im- 
perdent  and  mischevus  to  the  day  uv  his  deth. 

He  droops  in  cold  wether,  and  you  kin  mash  him 
on  a  winder-pane,  but  you've  jest  put  yore  finger  in 
it.  He  cums  agin  next  yeer,  and  a  heep  mo  with 
him.  'Taint  no  use. 

One  Hi  to  a  family  might  do  fur  amusement,  but 
the  good  uv  so  menny  flize  I  bedog  ef  I  kin  see. 
Kin  you  ? 

I  have  thort  much  about  flize,  and  I  has  notist 
how  ofting  they  stops  in  thar  deviltry  to  comb  thar 
heds  and  skratch  thar  nose  with  thar  fourlegs,  and 
gouge  thar  arm-pits  under  thar  wings,  and  the  tops 
of  thar  wings  with  thar  hind  legs,  and  my  kandid 


FUZE.  335 

opinyun  ar  that  flize  is  lowsy;  they  eeclies  all  the 
time,  is  misurbul,  and  that  makes  em  bad-tempered, 
and  they  want  to  make  uther  peepil  misurbul  too. 

Ef  that  ain't  the  flosofy  of  flize,  I  give  it  up. 

Altho  a  fli  don't  send  in  his  kard,  he  always  leaves 
one,  and  I  don't  like  it.  'Taint  pritty  ef  'tis  round. 
He  kan't  make  a  cross-mark — only  a  dot — and  he  is 
always  a  dottin  whar  thar  ain't  no  i's.  Thars  no 
eend  to  his  periods,  but  he  nuver  comes  to  a  full 
stop. 

Sich  handwritin  is  dizagreeabil. 

He's  a  artiss,  but  his  freshco  and  his  wall-paperin 
I  don't  admier.  Thars  too  much  sameness  in  his 
patterns.  His  specs  is  the  only  specs  that  don't 
help  the  eyes.  You  can't  see  through  um,  and  you 
-don't  want  too. 

I  hate  a  fli. 

Durn  a  fli. 


CHARGE  TO  THE  KNIGHTS, 

AT  A  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT  AT  RICHMOND,  ON  THE  4TH  or  JULY. 


Tchivalry  uv  me  Native  State  : 

TOUR,  committee  showed  much  taste  when  they 
selected  me  as  your  charger.  Notablest  of 
chargers  am  I,  and  fittest.  Educated  in  Princeton, 
New  Jersey,  I  can  ride  anything  from  a  hickory 
stick  to  the  walking-beam  of  a  steam-tug.  A  horse 
I  despise.  But  strap  me  down  tight  as  McClellan 
did  his  troopers,  or  pin  me  fast  with  hooks  and  eyes 
to  a  side-saddle,  and  I  can  ride  against  any  man  in 
the  world — if  another  man  will  lead  the  horse. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Knights  and  Tchivalry  of  Vir- 
ginia, I  shall  discharge  the  duty  I  sought  vainly  to 
escape.  You  will  observe  I  do  not  call  you  shiv- 
erlry,  but  tchivalry ;  and  this  I  do  because  Sir 
Knights  as  bold  and  valiant  as  you  are  would  not — 
indeed,  could  not — shiver,  even  on  the  Fourth  of 
July.  Did  they  have  any  Fourth  of  July  in  those 
days  when  Bryant  de  Boss  Gulliverbut,  and  those 
other  amiable  and  tchivalric  Mr.  Sir  Knights  whose 
names  escape  me,  nourished,  and  lit  or  fought  tour- 
naments? I  hope  not;  I  trow  not.  I  hope  they 
had  too  much  sense  to  indulge  in  any  foolishness 


THE  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT.  337 

about  Independence  days.  No;  those  pious  and 
doughty  Mr.  Sir  Knights  of  those  doleful  and  dia- 
bolical old  days  would  never  have  made  gumps  and 
T)lockheads  of  themselves  as  certain  tchivalric  Bos- 
tonians  did,  who  got  themselves  up  in  Indian  cos- 
tume and  rode  a  tilt  at  midnight  against  a  tea-ship — 
when  nobody  was  aboard,  not  even  the  cook's  mate — 
in  complete  armor.  That  bold  Boston  tea  tourna- 
ment, like  the  occupation  of  Sumter  by  Major  An- 
derson, brought  secession  from  the  best  British  gov- 
ernment the  world  ever  saw  up  to  that  time — 
brought  the  Fourth  of  July,  brought  you  out  here, 
me  into  this  bad  box,  and  all  our  woe. 

But,  Tchivalry  of  Virginia, — to  pronounce  the 
word  properly,  you  must  put  a  "t"  before  the 
•"chiv,'  and  utter  a  preliminary  sneeze  before  the 
"  t,"  and  you  have  it  exactly, — but,  Tchivalry  of  Vir- 
ginia, as  some  tremendous  poet  has  remarked,  "look 
not  mournfully  into  the  past."  And  when  some 
charger,  more  gifted  than  myself,  tells  you,  "  in  the 
language  of  the  sublime,  immortal,  and  beautiful 
Burke,  ;the  age  of  tchivalry  is  over,'"  and  then 
adds,  "  'taint  so,"  in  order  to  cheer  you  up, — when 
.some  gifted  charger  tells  you  this,  you  up  and  tell 
him  "  'its  so,"  and  that  he  is  a  mis-stater.  Aye,  Mr. 
Sir  Knights,  the  age  of  tchivalry  is  over,  and  you 
may  thank  your  stars  that  it  is  over.  Zounds ! 
where  would  you  be  this  day  if  it  were  not  over? 
Oadzooks !  how  would  you  feel  with  a  small  iron 
pot  clapt  close  to  your  skull.  Marry  come  up !  what 
would  be  the  state  of  your  sudatory  apparatus  if  you 
22 


338  THE  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT. 

had  two  hundred  pounds  of  skillet  lids  distributed  over 
your  precious  persons  ?  'Sdeath  !  how  your  nerves 
would  flatten  if  you  knew  that  in  ten  minutes  from 
this  time  the  chances  were  that  you  would  be- 
knocked  out  of  your  saddle — plumped  out  like  the 
middle  man  from  taw — by  a  real  spear,  and  landed 
flat  on  your  back,  twenty  feet  off  in  the  road  ?  And 
ten  to  one,  the  scoundrel  who  played  you  this  tchi- 
valric  little  trick  would  crown  your  sweetheart,  and 
she  would  smile  upon  him,  and  not  even  pay  you; 
the  compliment  of  going  to  your  funeral  to-morrow. 

Aye !  Mr.  Sir  Knights  and  Sir  Gentlemen,  you 
may  congratulate  yourselves  that,  although  this  is 
the  Fourth  of  July,  you  don't  have  to  get  up  and 
put  on  a  ready-made  suit  of  steel,  go  out  and  straddle 
an  iron-clad  horse,  and  put  out  from  home  with  every 
prospect  of  dying  before  sundown,  because  it  is  your 
duty  to  dare  every  man  to  knock  a  chip  off  your  hel- 
met who  says  his  mistress  is  prettier  than  yours. 

Yes,  gentlemen,  this  is  a  day  of  Spences,  of  Dev- 
lins,  of  Wm.  Ira  Smiths,  of  linen  dusters,  butterfly 
neckties,  and  shirts  at  $18  a  dozen.  Let  us  be  duly 
grateful  therefor. 

Having  dispatched  tchivalry,  my  next  task  is  to- 
gay  somewhat  about  beauty.  The  two,  beauty  and 
tchivalry,  always  go  together.  Why  they  always- 
went  together,  and  what  they  went  for,  I  never  did 
know.  Were  all  the  women  in  the  days  of  tchivalry 
beautiful  ?  Certainly,  they  must  have  been  beautiful,, 
or  else  the  skillet-lidded  gentlemen  of  the  period 
would  not  have  been  willing  to  risk  their  lives  twenty 


THE  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT.  339 

times  a  day  for  them.  It  is  not  so  now-a-days.  Far 
otherwise — very  much  not  so !  Alack  !  that  I  should 
say  it,  but  the  truth  is  that  some  modern  women  are 
as  ugly  as  the  inside  of  an  ancient,  rat-eaten  pine- 
apple cheeze,  and  as  high-tempered  early  in  the 
morning  as  a  cross-cut  saw.  They  have  some  temper 
left  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Also  some  temper  re- 
maining at  night.  A  homely  face,  a  plenty  of  tem- 
per, and  precious  little  money,  no  man,  however 
tchivalric,  would  be  willing  to  die  for  more  than 
once  in  twenty-four  hours. 

But,  next  to  a  thorough-bred  horse,  the  beautiful- 
est  thing  in  the  world  is  undoubtedly — what  do  you 
suppose  ?  A  woman  ?  Oh,  no  !  A  young  woman  ? 
Not  exactly.  A  wife  ?  A  good  wife  is  loveliness 
itself ;  but  all  wives  are  not  good.  A  widow,  then  ? 
We-11  ye-s,  a  pretty  widow  is  a  heap  prettier  than 
mighty  pretty.  But  the  beautifulest  thing  in  the 
wTorld,  beyond  all  shadow  of  comparison,  is  a  bride. 
And  for  the  sake  of  a  bride  I  think  any  valiant  man 
in  a  thin  suit  of  clothes,  all  paid  for,  will  be  willing, 
even  on  the  fourth  of  July,  to  ride  at  an  iron  ring 
twice  as  heavy  and  four  times  as  big  as  that  thing 
dangling  yonder.  And  it  is  your  bounden  duty,  as 
tchivalric  Sir  Knights,  to  make  every  one  of  the 
ladies  here  present — not  one  of  whom  is  ugly — all 
the  ugly  and  bad-tempered  women  have  gone  to 
Chicago  to  make  a  living  by  getting  divorces — it  is 
your  bounden  duty,  I  say,  to  make  each  young  lady 
who  now  gazes  on  your  manly,  dewy,  and  tchivalric 
forms,  the  beautifulest  thing  in  the  world — a  bride — 


340          THE  PYTHIAN  TOURNAMENT. 

and  so  give  her  the  chance  of  becoming  the  next 
beautif  ulest  thing  in  the  world — a  widow. 

Therefore,  Sir  Knights  and  gentlemen,  I  now  most 
earnestly  charge  you  to  do  your  level  best.  Proceed. 
Set  sail.  Unship  your  royal  mizzen  cat-heads,  haul 
aft  your  spanker  bowsprits,  hoist  your  foretops'l 
hatchways !  Go  it,  and  may  the  devil  take  the  man 
that  don't  take  the  ring. 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

BATTLE  ROLL  OF  THE  ARMY  OF  NORTHERN  VIRGINIA. 


~T)  UBKE,  the  author  of  The  Peerage,  gives  the 
JLJ)  following  account  of  the  famous  Battle  Abbey 
and  its  still  more  famous  Boll : 

"The  Boll  of  Battle  Abbey,  the  earliest  record, 
of  the  Normans,  has  at  all  times  been  regarded  with 
deep  interest  by  the  principal  families  in  the  king- 
dom— by  those  who  show  descent  directly  from  the 
chiefs  of  the  Conqueror's  host,  as  well  as  by  those 
who  indirectly  establish  a  similar  lineage. 

"  The  Abbey  of  Battle,  a  memorial  of  one  of  the 
most  important  events  in  English  history,  was  erected 
upon  a  place  called  Heathfield,  about  seven  miles  dis- 
tant from  Hastings,  in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  made  by 
the  Conqueror  prior  to  the  battle  which  won  for  him 
the  diadem  of  England.  Within  a  year  the  founda- 
tion was  laid  on  the  very  spot  where  the  battle  of 
Hastings  had  been  fought,  and  but  a  brief  period  sub- 
sequently passed  until  the  Monastery  itself  arose  in 
all  its  magnificence,  richly  endowed  and  highly  priv- 
ileged, dedicated  to  the  honor  of  the  Holy  Trinity 
and  St.  Martin,  the  high  altar  standing  where  Harold 
and  the  Saxon  standard  fell.  The  Conqueror  at  first 
designed  that  this  great  religious  house  should  ac- 


342  THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

commodate  one  hundred  and  fifty  monks,  but  pro- 
vision appears  to  have  been  made  for  sixty  only.  The 
first  community,  a  society  of  Benedictines,  came  from 
Marmenstier,  in  Normandy,  and  were  enjoined  to  pray 
for  those  who  died  in  the  battle,  and  to  preserve  a 
faithful  record  of  all  who  shared  in  the  glory  of  the 
victory.  Thus  arose  the  Abbey  of  Battle,  and  thus 
the  Koll  of  Battle  Abbey. 

"The  endowments  of  the  royal  founder  upon  the 
Abbey  and  the  holy  brethren  were,  in  the  extreme, 
liberal  and  munificent.  Aldsis  in  Sussex,  Lymsfield 
in  Surrey,  How  in  Essex,  Croumere  in  Oxen,  Bris- 
walderten  in  Berks,  together  with  a  league  of  land 
around  the  house  itself,  were  but  a  portion  of  their 
vast  domains.  They  had,  besides,  the  churches  of 
Hadings  and  Colanum,  in  Devon,  and  St.  Olave,  in 
Exeter.  The  immunities  they  enjoyed  were  alike  con- 
siderable. Their  grand  charter  exempted  the  Breth- 
ren of  Battle  from  episcopal  jurisdiction,  treasure 
trove  and  free  warren.  The  abbot  wore  the  mitre, 
and  was  invested  with  the  power  to  pardon  any  felon 
he  might  meet  with  going  to  execution.  From  foun- 
dation to  dissolution,  the  Abbey  of  Battle  had  a  suc- 
cession of  thirty-one  mitred  abbots.  The  last,  John 
Hammond,  was  chosen  in  1529.  The  site  of  the  dis- 
solved Abbey  was  granted  by  Henry  VIII.  to 
Richard  Gilmer,  who  sold  the  estate  to  Sir  Anthony 
Broune,  from  whose  descendants  the  Brounes,  Vis- 
counts Montague,  the  Abbey  and  lands  passed  again 
by  sale  to  Sir  Thomas  Webster,  Bart.,  in  whose  fam- 
ily they  are  yet  vested.  The  still  extant  ruins,  com- 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA.  343 

puted  at  not  less  than  a  mile  of  ground,  bear  ample 
testimony  to  the  splendor  and  magnificence  of  the 
celebrated  Monastery  of  Battle. 

"The  table  containing  the  following  names  was 
suspended  in  the  Abbey,  with  this  inscription :" 

Here  follows  the  latin  inscription  and  the  roll,  as 
given  by  Hollinshed,  and  again  by  Brompton,  Du- 
•chesne  and,  Leland.  Among  the  names  recorded, 
will  be  found  quite  a  number  which  are  household 
words  in  Virginia  and  other  Southern  States. 

Doubt  has  been  thrown  upon  the  accuracy  of  the 
Roll  of  Battle  Abbey,  so  far  at  least  as  it  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  muster  roll  of  the  Norman  chiefs  who 
survived  the  field  of  Hastings,  there  being  more  than 
a  suspicion  that  its  holy  guardians  felt  slight  qualm 
at  interpolation,  when  by  that  means  they  could  pro- 
pitiate the  favor  of  some  anticipated  wealthy  bene- 
factor, or  gratify  the  pride  of  some  potent  steel-clad 
baron.  A  recent  writer  endeavors,  thus  eloquently, 
to  excuse  the  laxity  of  this  celebrated  record:  "It 
was  no  unworthy  pride,"  says  Mr.  Warburton,  "that 
would  introduce  a  little  of  the  Norman  sap  into  the 
family  tree.  And  if  to  effect  such  an  object  his- 
tory be  sometimes  twisted,  and  heraldry  suborned, 
let  us  look  with  indulgent  eyes.  Even  at  this  day, 
in  a  country  where  titles  command  so  much  respect 
from  the  general  worth  of  those  who  bear  them,  Nor- 
man blood  is  the  proudest  boast,  and  Norman  fea- 
tures the  proudest  distinction."  The  document  is, 
at  all  events,  one  of  monkish  times,  and  has  always 
been  held  in  high  estimation  by  the  ancient  chroni- 


3tt4  THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

clers.  Grafton  calls  the  list,  which  he  publishes,. 
"The  Names  of  the  Gentlemen  that  came  out  of 
Normandy  with  William,  Duke  of  that  Prouynce,, 
when  he  conquered  the  noble  Realm  of  England,  the 
which  he  states  that  he  took  out  of  an  Auncient  Re- 
corde  that  he  had  of  Clarenceux,  King  of  Armes." 
And  Stow  asserts  his  catalogue  is  transcribed  from 
"A  table  some  time  in  Battaille  Abbey."  Guilliaume- 
Tayleur,  too,  a  Norman  historian,  who  could  not 
have  had  any  communication  with  the  monks  of  Bat- 
tle, has  given  a  copy  of  the  muster  roll,  according  in 
most  particulars  with  the  lists  which  Burke  has  in- 
serted. 

Burke's  "Annotations"  refer  briefly  to  those  sol- 
djers  of  the  Conquest,  of  whom  any  authentic  his- 
tory remains,  or  from  whom  descendants  may  be 
traced.  The  information  imparted  by  him,  meagre 
though  it  be,  will  not  be  deemed  valueless  or  uninterest- 
ing by  those  through  whose  veins  the  Norman  blood 
flows,  and  in  whose  breast  the  Norman  spirit  breathes. 
"On  that  soil" — we  again  quote  from  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton's  able  work — "  on  that  soil  where  they  fixed  their 
final  home,  the  influence  of  Holla  and  his  race 
abides  in  monuments  more  enduring  and  worthier 
than  castles  or  abbeys;  in  the  skill  that  tames  the- 
war-horse ;  in  the  courage  that  '  rules  the  wave ;'  in 
the  energies,  the  perseverance,  the  honor,  the  piety 
of  the  English  people. 

"  Nor  have  these  influences  suffered  diminution  from 
the  wear  of  eight  hundred  years.  There  is  a  vitality 
in  the  Norman  spirit  on  which  time  seems  to  have  m> 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA.  345 

power.  Such  as  it  was  in  the  days  after  Hastings,, 
such  it  is  now.  Then  it  inspired  the  Norman  knight ; 
it  now  breathes  in  the  English  gentleman." 

We  have  taken  the  trouble  to  revive  the  history 
of 'Battle  Abbey,  in  order  that  we  might  fitly  intro- 
duce the  suggestion  promised  at  the  close  of  our  first 
article  on  the  record  of  Virginia.  As  we  have  said, 
that  record,  so  far  at  least  as  the  Army  of  Northern 
Virginia  is  concerned,  is  the  record  of  the  Confeder- 
ate States,  each  of  which  has  contributed  lavishly 
of  its  blood  and  treasure  in  the  formation  and  achieve- 
ments of  that  army.  We  owe  it  to  ourselves,  to  our 
posterity,  to  mankind,  and,  above  all,  to  the  battle- 
scarred  and  toil-worn  heroes  of  that  truly  great  army, 
to  perpetuate  its  deeds  of  valor,  endurance  and  suf-* 
fering  in  some  becoming  manner.  The  day  of  ab- 
beys, monasteries  and  monks  is  past  for  ever,  but  the 
arts  of  modern  civilization  enable  us  to  record  the  his- 
tory of  heroic  actions  in  a  manner  far  superior  to  the 
written  annals  of  ancient  days.  The  printing  press  and 
the  photograph,  by  so  much  as  they  excel  in  rapidity 
and  accuracy  the  pen  of  the  monk  and  the  limner's 
pencil,  place  it  within  our  power  to  preserve  the 
muster-roll  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia,  and 
to  erect  in  honor  of  its  deeds  a  "monument  more 
enduring  and  worthier  than  castles  or  abbeys." 

Why  should  not  each  State  have  its  muster-roll  of 
the  second  war  for  independence,  and  why  should  not 
all  the  States  unite  in  perpetuating  the  battle-roll  of 
the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia?  The  suggestion, 
we  have  to  make  is  this : 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

,  I.  The  formation  of  a  society,  to  be  called  "  The 
Historical  Art  Association  of  the  Confederate  States," 
which  shall  be  a  permanent  organization,  chartered 
regularly,  and  composed  of  leading  men  from  every 
State;  the  President  of  the  Confederate  States,* or 
other  suitable  person,  to  be  the  President  of  the  As- 
.sociation.  The  Yice-Presidents  to  consist  of  one  or 
.more  distinguished  gentlemen  from  each  of  the 
•Southern  States.  The  Executive  Committee  to  be 
•composed  of  influential  and  energetic  citizens  of 
Richmond,  where  the  Association  will  meet  at  least 
once  a  month  for  the  transaction  of  business.  The 
Chairman  of  this  Committee  to  be  a  man  who  will 
give  his  heart  and  soul  to  the  work,  in  which  he  will 
be  seconded  faithfully  by  all  the  members  of  the 
•committee — the  aim  being  the  formation  of  a  living, 
working,  ever-growing  Association.  In  addition  to 
these  officers,  there  should  be  a  Recording  Secretary, 
Corresponding  Secretary,  Treasurer,  Historiographer, 
Photographer,  and  Artist. 

II.  Regular,  honorary,  and  corresponding  mem- 
bers, to  be  eligible  on  terms  prescribed  by  the  con- 
stitution of  the  Association. 

III.  One  or  more  travelling  agents. 

IV.  The  primary  object  of  the  Association  shall 
be  the  collection,  in  one  magnificent  volume,  hand- 
somely embellished  and  bound  in  the  most  durable 
manner,  of  a  series  of  engravings — executed  in  steel, 
in  the  highest  style  of  the  art,  by  the  best  artists, 
and  from  photographs  taken  on  the  spot — of  all  the 
_great  battle-fields  in  which  the  Army  of  Northern 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA.  347 

Virginia,  or  any  considerable  detachment  of  it,  has 
been  or  may  hereafter  be  engaged. 

Y.  Brief  description  of  each  battle-field ;  contem- 
porary description  of  the  battle  itself  (if  one  of  any 
value  may  be  had) ;  official  report  of  the  commanding 
general,  with  extracts  from  minor  reports;  list  of 
troops  engaged,  of  casualties  and  captures ;  and  names 
-of  those  who  specially  distinguished  themselves. 

YI.  Brief  extracts  from  comments  of  the  press  of 
the  South  and  North,  and  of  Europe,  on  each  battle. 

YII.  Plan  of  each  battle,  taken  from  official  re- 
•cords. 

YIII.  Likenesses  of  generals,  partisan  chiefs,  and 
other  officers  of  distinction,  with  short  biography 
.and  list  of  battles  in  which  they  were  engaged. 

IX.  The  Historiographer  should  accompany  the 
Photographer,  for  the  purpose  of  furnishing  a  writ- 
.ten   description    of   the    battle-field  as  it  appeared 
when  the  photograph  was  taken,  and  to  obtain  other 
•data  which  might  be  of  use  to  him  in  compiling  the 

volume. 

X.  The  secondary  object  of  the  Association  should 
be  the  collection  and  preservation  of  historical  relics, 
o-ecords,  etc. 

If  the  Association  prospered  and  accumulated 
money,  its  aim  in  the  future  would  be  to  have  exe- 
cuted, by  the  foremost  painters  of  the  day,  a  series 
^f  historical  paintings,  on  a  large  scale,  of  the  great 
battles  fought  by  the  Army  of  Northern  Yirginia; 
the  paintings  to  be  based  upon  the  official  reports 
:&nd  plans;  the  scenery  as  depicted  by  the  Photo- 


348  THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

grapher,  and  the  descriptions  of  the  Historiographer" 
of  the  Association. 

Thus  prepared,  "  The  Battle-Koll  of  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia"  would  be  eagerly  sought  by 
every  family  in  the  Confederacy.  Every  consider- 
able library,  public  or  private,  in  the  civilized  world, 
would  want  a  copy,  and  pay  almost  any  price  for  it. 
Its  cost  would  be  great — so  great,  indeed,  as  to  place 
it  beyond  the  reach  of  many  who  would  ardently 
desire  it,  and  to  whom  it  would  rightfully  belong. 
To  obviate  this  difficulty,  the  following  plan  has  sug- 
gested itself  to  us : 

I.  Let  a  certain  number  of  copies  be  printed  with 
an  appropriate  and  beautiful  presentation  page. 

II.  Each  city,  town  and  county  to  subscribe  for  as 
many  copies  as  it  chooses,  to  be  presented  to  the  of- 
ficers, non-commissioned  officers  and  privates  (or  to 
their  widows,  orphans,  or  nearest  surviving  relatives,)' 
from  said  cities,  counties,  etc.,  who  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  some  very  signal  manner. 

What  a  treasure  such  a  present  would  be — what 
an  heir-loom — how  proudly  and  fondly  cherished — 
and  what  an  incentive  to  deeds  of  valor  to  the  chil- 
dren of  each  fortunate  owner.  The  presentation 
page  would  contain  the  owner's  name,  and  the  special 
act  or  acts  of  gallantry  which  induced  his  countrymen 
to  present  him  with  the  volume,  which  would  be 
deemed,  and,  indeed,  be  a  patent  of  nobility  forever, 
for  a  book  well-bound  and  well-kept  outlasts  marble,, 
granite  or  brass. 

As  an  Appendix  to  the  "  Battle-Koll  of  the  Army 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA.  349 

-of  Northern  Virginia,"  its  muster  roll,  containing  a 
full  and  complete  list  of  every  man  who  belonged  to 
that  army,  and  for  what  length  of  time  he  served, 
might  be  added.  But  this  roll  of  itself  would  make 
a  separate  and  huge  volume.  If  ever  printed,  it 
would  form  an  admirable  companion  volume  to  the 
Battle-Book,  and  be  an  invaluable  historical  record. 
We  have  thus  given,  at  much  greater  length  than 
we  intended,  the  views  which  have  occurred  to  us  in 
regard  to  a  proper  record  of  Virginia  and  the  achieve- 
ments of  its  great  army.  We  have  shown  that  the 
Legislature  of  Virginia  and  the  Confederate  Congress 
have  made  ample  provision  for  the  execution  of  the 
record  in  question.  The  Legislature  has  voted  all 
the  money  that  may  be  necessary,  and  the  Congress 
has  authorized  the  secretary  of  war  to  place  the 
record  agent  on  the  same  footing  as  an  officer  of  the 
regular  service.  Supplies  of  all  sorts,  at  government 
cost,  and  free  transportation  are  furnished  him.  In 
return,  the  agent  is  required  only  to  procure  from 
company  officers  "final  statements  of  deceased  sol- 
diers, to  be  filed  in  the  second  auditor's  office."  By 
allowing  each  recording  agent  the  rations,  etc.,  of  the 
regular  service,  it  is  evident  that  Congress  contem- 
plated the  appointment  of  an  officer  who  should  de- 
vote his  whole  time  to  the  affairs  of  his  office,  and 
be  paid  accordingly.  It  was  the  expectation,  doubt?- 
less,  of  those  who  framed  the  act,  that  each  and  every 
State  of  the  Confederacy  would  have  its  recording 
agent,  and  that  no  State  would  be  so  negligent  of  its 
interests  and  its  fame  as  not  to  appoint  such  an  agent. 


350  THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA. 

If  the  appointments  were  not  made,  the  blame  rests,, 
not  upon  Congress,  but  upon  the  Governors  and  State 
Legislatures.  Our  own  Virginia  Legislature  has 
done  its  duty,  and  our  Governor,  we  are  fully  per- 
suaded, will  do  his. 

State  records  can  be  made  with  State  and  Congres- 
sional assistance,  but  no  such  aid  can  be  expected  for 
the  other  scarcely  less  important  work  which  we  have 
projected,  namely:  "The  Battle-Roll  of  the  Army 
of  Northern  Virginia."  That  must  be  done  by  cor-# 
porate  or  individual  energy,  and  by  the  liberal  coun- 
tenance and  support  of  citizens  in  all  parts  of  the 
Confederacy.  Will  that  support  be  given,  or  will  the- 
record  of  the  allied  Confederate  army  be  left  to  chance  £ 
That  army  deserves  a  monument  commensurrate  with 
the  greatness  of  its  exploits.  A  column  of  stone,, 
would  be  more  imposing,  but  the  "Battle-Roll" 
would  be  more  appropriate,  more  enduring,  and 
more  inspiring  to  corning  generations.  The  monu- 
ment of  marble  could  not  be  brought  into  every 
man's  house,  and  made  the  companion  and  text-book 
of  his  children  ;  the  literary  monument  could.  But 
we  will  not  dwell  on  this  point.  If  the  merits  of" 
the  work  are  not  apparent  at  the  first  glance,  no- 
special  plea  and  no  details  will  make  them  so. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  "  Battle-Roll,"  like  the^ 
61  Record  of  Virginia,"  is  a  work  to  be  consummated 
only  in  times  of  peace.  True,  yet  the  longer  both 
are  delayed,  the  less  complete  and  accurate  they  will 
be.  Battle-fields  will  be  ploughed  up,  trees  cut 
down,  fortifications  crumble,  and  the  whole  land- 


THE  RECORD  OF  VIRGINIA.  351 

scape  be  so  changed  as  to  become  scarcely  recogniz- 
able. Such  is  the  case  to-day  with  the  field  of  Ma- 
nassas,  compared  with  what  it  was  in  July,  '61.  The 
Art  Association  should  at  once  be  organized,  and  the 
work  begin  immediately.  If  the  association  cannot 
be  formed,  any  private  individual  who  can  and  will 
undertake  the  task  of  completing  the  Battle-Roll,  as 
we  have  outlined  it,  will  be  munificently  rewarded 
for  his  labor,  and  confer  a  lasting  benefit  upon  the 
Southern  people. 

We  have  suggested  two  works  which  we  regard  of 
the  first  order  of  importance.  It  is  not  for  those 
who  conceive  to  execute.  Should  these  works  be 
postponed  indefinitely,  and  executed  at  last  in  an  in- 
complete arid  bungling  manner,  the  blame  will  be 
chargeable  alone  to  the  people  who  were  culpably 
negligent  of  their  fame.  Our  task  is  done. 


UV  WIMMIN. 

BY  Mozis  ADDUMS. 


AS  wimmin  is  a  gointer  voat  sune,  every  dog  uv 
a  man  that  kin  hole  a  pen  is  a  takin  uv  a  chants 
at  'em  in  the  gnuspapers.  It's  reether  late  in  the 
day  fur  me  to  cum  intoo  the  ring,  but  I'm  too  mutch 
uv  a  man  to  rezis  the  tumptashum  to  take  a  pop  at  'em. 

I  has  known  and  laved  'em  well  these  menny  a 
year,  but  I  has  my  ubjeckshun  to  wimmin.  It  ar 
this — eveything  about  'em  is  too  long.  Thar  kote- 
tail  is  too  long ;  it  riffles  on  the  groun  like  runnin 
water,  and  gethers  up  dert  and  trash  like  a  harry- 
kane  duz  going  roun  a  fodder  stak.  But  a  shipp 
under  full  sail  ought  to  have  a  wake,  and  I  wooden 
hav  wimmin's  froks  cut  off  to  thar  wTaste  like  a  jump- 
jackit  for  a  pritty. 

Thar  shoo-strings  is  too  long.  A  man  kin  war 
bootz  'thout  no  strings  a  tall,  ixseptin  uv  the  strops, 
but  a  wummun  is  bleest  to  hav  cossets  roun  her 
ankles  and  lace  'em  up  like  2  par  uv  stays.  May 
be  it  makes  'em  walk  mo  prittier;  I  dunno.  Thar 
heels  uv  thar  shoes  is  alsoe  too  long,  and  thar  sox  is 
too  long — takes  all  day  to  dror  'em  on. 

Thar  ixtremmytis  is  too  long.  They  kin  set  in  a 
cheer  lo'  doun,  and  kick  a  man  that's  a  settin  in  a 
high  cheer,  12  foot  off  in  the  clear,  clean  outen  the 


uv  WIMMIN.  353 

hous.  Now  John  Ekkles  nor  the  Beljin  jiunt,  nor 
nar  nuther  man,  can't  do  that  standin.  This  givs 
'em  a  ondew  idvantidge  over  thar  marster,  Man,  in 
the  urly  staidge  uv  the  gaime.  Arfter  marridge, 
the  gaim  uv  kickin  is  mo  evener. 

I  shall  not  say  thar  waste  is  too  long,  onlest  they 
dunno  how  to  war  thar  clothes  good,  and  are  pedus- 
trianated  to  be  ole  mades.  A  long  barrel  wummun 
are  a  utto  abominashun.  I  prefears  a  durringer. 

Thar  necks  is  too  long.  A  neck  uv  a  wummun 
are  like  untoo  the  mune  in  the  almenack  when  they 
says,  "  Luner  runs  low,"  and,  like  the  bress  uv  a  gooce, 
it  imbraces  a  good  deel  uv  the  back.  Ef  the  neck 
uv  a  man  were  like  the  neck  uv  a  wummun,  the 
gnott  uv  his  crevatt  wood  rest  on  the  pitt  uv  his 
stummuck.  When  a  wummun  runs  to  neck,  she  out 
runs  ennything  ixsept  a  osstrich  or  a  kamme  leppud, 
and  her  hed  hangs  away  out  yonder  like  a  appel  on 
the  eend  uv  a  switch  that  a  boy  is  a  gointer  to  sling 
green  appils  with.  And  in  them  casis  I  has  obsurvd 
that  whar  the  hed  ar  at  sich  a  distance  frum  the 
hart,  the  wummun  is  a  onfeelin  wummun.  And  her 
neck  is  rinkeldy. 

I  kinnot  say  uv  my  oan  ixpeyunce  that  the  hands 
and  arms  uv  wimmin  is  too  long,  or  why  they  is  so, 
but  they  ought  to  be  so  accordin  to  the  lodjick  uv  a 
man,  and  tharfo  they  must  be  so,  whether  or  no 
they  ar  so  or  not  so.  Thar  nales  is  certny  too  long 
— bein'  weepuns  uv  diffense  in  wimmin  and  katts, 
tho'  I  has  nuvver  bin  skracht  nor  broom stickt  by  a 
wummun.  But  nales  in  katts  is  calld  claws,  and 
22 


354:  UV  WIMMIN. 

they  hides  'em  so  that  they  nuvver  comes  out  tell 
they  ar  a  gointer  rip  you.  And  then  they  do  it 
quick. 

Wimmin's  tungs  is  too  long,  whitch  is  rite,  tungs 
bein  thar  best  holt,  as  Gra  Lathum  wood  say,  and  a 
more  nateraler  weepun  uv  diffense  than  nales  or 
claws.  I've  heerd  a  grate  deel  in  my  tiem  'bout 
wimmins  talkin,  but  for  a  ded-levvil,  hand-runnin, 
long-windded  talk,  I'll  put  a  man  aginst  'em  enny 
day.  Housevver,  when  it  comes  to  a  skoldin  uv  a 
suvvunt,  and  ptickly  to  quoiiin  with  annther  wum- 
mun,  men  carnt  cumpyar  with  wimmin.  Then  it  is, 
as  the  grate  Jummun  pote,  Go  Ethe,  sais,  thar  tungs 
goes  faster  than  fast  as  posbil,  and  the  souperriorryty 
uv  the  insterment  is  displade  in  a  manner  that  must 
make  a  good-talkin  man  feel  ubbasht. 

Thar  nose  is  too  long.  You  may  taik  a  drink  a 
miel  frum  hoame,  and  two  hours  befo  dinner,  and 
set  doun  and  eet  with  the  solemnetty  uv  Sockratees 
eetin  pizun;  but  'taint  no  use — that  nose  hav  got 
you,  and  had  you  frum  the  momunt  you  enterd  the 
frunt  dore.  In  like  manner  her  eye  is  too  long,  for 
it  seen  you  wobbil  sunes  you  ternd  the  cornder;  and 
thar  aint  a  plug  uv  tubbacker  jobbed  in  the  bottum 
uv  a  trunc  or  dror  that  she  don't  see  it  like  a  telles- 
kope.  Why,  she  kin  rede  yo  verry  thoughts,  and 
see  a  cuss-word  layin  flat  on  the  floor  of  your  soul 
fore  it  move.  Evry  wummun  is  a  nachural  clear- 
voyunt. 

That  thar  heds  is  too  long  I'm  satisfide,  havin 
nuvver  foun  a  wummun  yit  that  couldn  fool  me  or 


DY  WIMMIN.  355 

-enny  uther  man;  and  the  smarter  the  man  the  eezier 
it  is  to  fool  him.  You  may  say  whut  you  will  'bout 
the  wizdum  uv  men,  and  the  want  uv  it  in  wimmin, 
'but  I  has  ubzuvd  this  fack,  that  wimmin  don't  looze 
thar  minds  in  old  aidge  like  men.  They  don't  git 
•doted  ixsept  in  urly  yewth.  A  sarcastick  man  would 
say  that  wimmin  have  little  mind  to  looze,  and 
tharfo  they  hangs  onto  it;  but  I  has  ubsuvd  that, 
.arfter  they  has  puppytrated  the  snpreame  folly  uv 
marryin,  they  has  a  good  deal  mo  wizdum  for  a  man 
than  the  man  havs  for  hisself ;  and  wimmin  is  like 
fox-fire,  they  don't  shine  ixsept  in  a  dark  plais,  and 
marridge  is  dark  enuf  for  most  uv  'em,  po  souls ! 

Thar  har  is  too  long,  tho',  I  can't  abear  a  wummun 
with  short  har,  or  that  parts  her  har  on  one  side.  I 
want  to  kill  them  one-sided  wimmin  whenuvver  and 
wharuvver  I  see  um — but  it  hangs  doun  like  a  hoss's 
tail,  and  they  havs  to  gorm  it  over  thar  heds  evry 
which  away,  like  a  feller  that's  got  a  big  dubble  hand- 
ful of  stued  melassis  that  it  is  hard  work  to  keep 
frum  drappin  on  the  floor.  But  wimmins  har  dont 
git  hard  like  melassis  kandy,  tho'  I'd  ruther  pull  it 
enny  day,  if  it's  pritty,  than  kandy,  becos  it  don't 
stick  to  yo  hands  and  makes  sumthin  run  up  yo  elbo 
that  nuver  runs  out  uv  kandy.  Wimmins  har  is  like 
tall  trees  on  top  uv  a  hill,  put  thar  to  hide  the  hard- 
ness uv  the  rocks.  Frum  a  feelin  and  a  fingerin  uv 
thar  blessid  bewtiful  har,  soft  as  silk,  you'd  nuver 
dream  that  dillishus  and  intocksikatin  stuff  like  that 
cums  out  uv  perhaps  the  durnedest  hardest  bone  on 
•earth. 


356  UV  WIMMIN. 

Finally,  thar  memmyris  is  too  long.  To  save  yo> 
life,  you  couldn't  tell  the  fust  tiera  or  enny  uther 
tiem  you  quorld  with  yo  sweethart  or  yo  wife,  but 
she  remembrers  the  tiem,  plais,  suckumstantses,  and 
verry  words  uv  the  furst  and  evry  uther  tiem  yo 
uvver  quorld  with  her  or  said  a  hash  thing.  She 
kin  tell  you  the  state  of  the  wether  on  them  interestin 
ackashuns,  the  clothes  you  had  on,  the  arteekles  you. 
had  in  the  pockits  uv  them  clothes,  and  the  way  you 
cruilly  and  dierbolikly  done  it,  while  she,  po  trimblin. 
thing,  that  nuvver  give  you  no  provocashun,  only 
wunderd  and  weept,  and  weept  and  wunderd,  and 
nuvver  did  find  out  what  she  done  to  awoken  them 
tubbalent  pashins  in  yo  luvin  brest.  And  when  she 
begin  to  dror  the  lenth  uv  her  memry  on  you,  and 
you  cant  rickollect  a  blaim  thing,  how  you  gointer 
fend  off  ?  You  can't  do  it ;  and  a  newspapir  hilt  befo 
yo'  fase,  and  whistlin,  and  drummin  uv  yo  hands  on 
the  arms  uv  yo  cheer  wont  perteckt  yo  "in  that 
mornin."  Her  memry  is  bin  a  layin  in  wait  like  a 
tigur  for  you  these  menny  munths,  and  it  will  hav  yo 
hart's  blood  ef  you  don't  rize  to  the  magnetude  uv 
the  immerdgency.  The  plainest  way,  as  I've  dis- 
kivered  by  sad  ixpeyunce,  is  to  git  madder  than  you 
uvver  was  befo,  stork  mejesticully  out  uv  the  room, 
slammin  uv  the  dore  with  terriffic  violents,  and  then 
walk  into  a  lonely  plais  and  wonder  why  God  Amitey 
allow  such  a  feend  as  yoself  to  live  a  minnit.  Bimeby 
you'll  think  better  uv  yoself  and  fergit  all  about  it, 
but  she  piles  up  the  ded  wood  on  you  in  her  memry, 
and  I  cant  say  that  you've  made  so  mighty  much 


UV  WIMMIN.  357 

"by  yo  rarrin  and  a  tarrin — that  ar  memry  uv  hern 
being  boun  to  hav  the  last  tag,  do  what  you  will.  But 
it  do  come  acrost  you  at  times  that  it  is  passin  strainge 
that  you  should  feruvver  and  etunnully  be  always  in 
the  wrong.  But  what  kin  you  do,  what  kin  you  say ! 
She  havs  the  fackts  and  you  havs  the  fury,  and,  in  a 
wrastle  uv  that  kine,  fackts  is  ail-under  holt. 

Now  it's  a  remarkerbul  and  serprizin  thing,  in  veu 
uv  her  memry,  that  trezures  up  evry  rong  you  uvver 
done  her,  that  her  luv,  like  evry  thing  else,  should 
alsoe  be  too  long.  She  luvs  and  luvs  you,  twell  you 
are  so  tierd  and  fitteegd  that  you  wouldnt  give  one 
good  leedin  eddytoriul  in  yo  favrit  paper  for  all  the 
wimmin  in  the  whole  worl;  and  the  mo  you  go 
pirootin  roun  uv  nites,  a  play  in  uv  keerds,  a  talkin 
uv  pollytix,  a  drinkin  uv  whiskey  straits,  and  a  eetin 
uv  free-rnasun's  suppers,  the  mo  she  luvs  you;  and 
that's  like  the  sun  a  shinin  on  Esopp's  travler's  back 
— thar's  no  fightin  a  thing  like  that;  it  just  gethers 
you,  and  you  got  to  knock  under  or  else  go  rite 
spang  into  torment  with  all  uv  her  prars  and  teers 
^  crowdin  you  under  the  brimstone  like  fifty-six  poun 
weights  a  restin  on  yo  shoulder  blaids.  The  lenth 
uv  a  wummun's  luv  for  the  man  she  luvs  is  like  the 
lenth  uv  a  line  in  a  fisshin  for  flat-back — it  givs  him 
room  to  play  and  rush  aroun,  and  madly  kevort  twell 
he  gets  completely  wo  out,  and  then  you  kin  dror  him 
to  shoar  as  meek  as  a  blind  sheep  with  a  broken  leg. 

So,  apun  a  carm  reveu  uv  the  intiur  subjick,  I 
<?arnt  see  that  man  hav  got  so  mighty  much  to  brag 
over  his  souperiorrity  to  wummun  arfter  all.  In  the 


358  UV  WIMMIN. 

wedth  uv  his  veus,  he  may  hold  the  age  on  her 
slightually;  but  when  it  ctims  to  lenth  nv  feelins, 
she  ubtains  him  bad,  for  lenth  is  boun  to  tell  in  the 
long  run. 

Ef  evrything  about  'em  is  too  long,  as  I  have 
showed,  nobody  neednt  wundur  that  wimmin  shood 
have  a  great  ponskont  (Frenteh)  for  long  things,  which, 
ef  you  stop  to  think  about  it  a  minnit,  is  a  wunder- 
fool  feecher  uv  femail  karricture.     Long  kerls,  long 
brades,    long   ribbons,   long    har-pins.    long   nitten- 
needils,  long  gluvs,  gantlits  and  mitts,  long  list  uv 
uckquaintunsis,  long  akounts  at  the  dry-guds  stos,. 
long  shoppins,  long  walks  with  thar  luvers  (which 
they  luv  'em  to  be  long-hard,  with  long  beerds  and 
mustachers),   long,    all-day    preechins,    long  buggy- 
rides,  long  tiem  gittin  reddy  to  start,  and  then,  wust 
uv  all  by  a  long  shot,  long  leeve-takins,  that  urri- 
tates  a  man  wnssern  a  plarster  uv  kentherrydees. 
And  then,  so  divvoatid  they  is  to  evrything  long, 
they'll  set  doun,  with  a  long  pen-pint  in  a  long-pen- 
handil,  and  write  a  long  letter,  cross  up  one  side  and 
doun  the  uther,  and  then  add  two  or  three  long  pos- 
skrips  (like  tackin   uv  severial    flounsis  to   a  long 
skeert)  fold  it  up  lenthwise,  and  put  it  in  a  long  in- 
vellup,  and  seal  it  with  a  long  stick  of  sealin  waxx. 
In  fact,  so  great  is  thar  horro  uv  short  things,  that 
they  wouldnt  make  a  peeriud  or  full  stop  to  save  yo 
soul,  but  makes  a  long  dash  in  plais  uv  peeriuds, 
commers,  and  evrything,  so  that  it  ruin  yo  eyesite 
and  taik  away  yo  breth  to  rede  thar  letters,  which  is- 
like  creashun   broke   loose  and  lonjytude  skattered 


UV  WIMMIN.  359 

evrywhichaway  in  fragments  uv  lattytude.  Why, 
evin  the  tops  uv  thar  "t's"  is  long,  like  the  mast  uv 
a  shipp,  crost  with  long  crosses  like  yard  arms ;  and 
the  bottoms  uv  thar  "g's"  is  so  long  that  they  look 
like  sturrup-lethers  hangin  doun  'thout  enny  sturrups 
to  'em. 

In  cunclewshun,  they  livs  too  long,  givin  uv  a  man 
(preechurs  is  diffrunt)  no  chants  to  marry  but  one  in 
a  life-tiem,  wharas  a  avvridge  uv  about  seven  to  a 
man  would  be  about  right,  I  jedge.  But,  no  matter 
how  you  treet  'em  (and  they  is  genrully  treeted  bad 
enuf),  they  brokinly  livs  on  tell  they  is  some  aty  or 
nienty  yeers  uv  aidge  old,  retainin  to  the  verry  last 
thar  littil  senses,  and  a  settin  in  a  stick  back  arm 
cheer,  with  cap,  spektickles,  and  the  purpetchully 
puppendickerlur  back-boan  uv  the  peeryud,  etun- 
nully  a  nittin  uv  a  par  uv  socks  for  sum  man  or 
nuther,  and  a  lookin  doun  upon  you  like  the  perry- 
mids  of  Ejipp  lookt  doun  upon  the  Frentch  army, 
twell  you  feal  that  small  and  mean  that  you  want  to 
creep  throu  a  ke-hole,  and  sneek  off  and  write  a  sa- 
tirrikul  arteekle  on  wirnmin,  and  be  at  ress. 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR: 

THE  RECORD  or  A  MAN  WHO  SHIVERED  THROUGH  THE  MANASSAS 
CAMPAIGN. 


EX-GOVEENOE  James  L.  Kemper  tells  a  war 
story  that  is  so  very  good  I  think  he  must  have 
invented  it.  Yet  it  is  so  true  to  nature  that  it  ought 
to  have  happened  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand  times. 
He  says  that  on  the  night  of  the  retreat  from  Wil- 
liamsburg  in  1862,  when  men  and  officers  were 
mixed  up  indiscriminately  in  the  muddy  road,  with 
the  rain  falling  heavily  on  them,  and  no  man  knew 
his  neighbor,  a  soldier  near  him  (General  Kemper) 
pulled  himself  out  of  the  mire,  and  going  up  to  the 
fence  on  the  road-side  dropped  his  musket  to  the 
ground,  and,  in  accents  of  the  most  intense  sincerity, 
exclaimed : 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  love  another  country  ag'in,  damn 
me!" 

Much  the  same  feeling  came  over  me  the  first  night 
I  slept,  or  tried  to  sleep,  at  the  new  fair-grounds,  in 
the  suburbs  of  Eichmond,  which  had  been  turned 
into  a  camp  of  instruction,  and  was  called  Camp  Lee. 
My  friend,  Lieutenant  Latham,  of  Lynchburg  (after- 
wards Acting  Judge  Advocate  General  of  the  Army 
of  Northern  Virginia),  and  I  slept  under  the  same 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOK.  361 

blanket  on  the  upper  floor  of  one  of  the  fair-ground 
buildings.  The  month  was  April,  the  night  was 
chill,  the  air  keen,  the  blanket  thin,  the  planks  hard. 
Moreover,  I  had  eaten  freely  of  hard  tack  and  drunk 
still  more  freely  of  cold  water,  which  was  bad  for 
niy  dyspepsia. 

Truth  is,  there  was  a  big  disgust  upon  me,  more  on 
account  of  my  "sojer  clothes,"  I  think,  than  anything 
else.  Nature  had  not  fitted  me  for  a  roundabout 
with  brass  buttons — a  fact  which  the  young  ladies  dis- 
covered as  we  marched  past  them  and  their  waving 
'kerchiefs  on  our  way  to  Camp  Lee.  Besides,  I  had 
always  thought  "  so jering"  tomfoolery  anyhow.  So 
when  the  night  wind  blew  keen  upon  my  ribs,  my 
purpose  to  love  any  more  countries  diminished  as 
sensibly  as  did  the  soldier's  on  the  Williamsburg  road, 
though  I  did  not  formulate  it  in  such  spirited  terms 
as  his.  Yet  I  loved  my  country,  I  verily  believe,  as 
much  as  any  man  on  the  ground  at  Camp  Lee — would 
have  died  for  her ;  bat  not  by  freezing,  or,  worse  still, 
by  filth.  Of  this  last,  more  anon.  That  others 
shared  my  feelings  was  proved  by  Y.  Dabney.  In 
consequence  of  his  huge  bulky  figure,  his  jolly  good 
nature  and  his  fund  of  wit,  Y-  —  was  a  conspicuous 
figure  in  the  camp.  He  had  been  raised  in  luxury. 
His  father,  a  rich  Mississippi  planter,  had  lavished 
money  on  him,  and  actually  urged  him  into  extrava- 
gance. His  ideal  of  life  was  a  hotel  in  Paris,  and 
this  sort  of  thing  didn't  suit  him  at  all.  But  his 
sense  of  duty  was  supreme. 

"Boys,"  he  would  say,  as  he  took  his  short  meer- 


362  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

schaum  from  hie  mouth  and  drew  up  his  robust  figure1 
to  its  full  height,  "Boys,  I  want  you  distinctly  to 
understand — this  is  my  last  war !  This  is  my  first,, 
and  I  am  going  to  see  it  through  to  the  bitter  end, 
but  after  this  no  more  war,  no  more  sleeping  in  straw 
forY.  D.  No,  sir?" 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  went  through 
the  war,  rising  to  a  captaincy  on  the  staff  of  Gordon, 
of  Georgia,  and  now  teaches  school  in  the  city  of 
New  York. 

"Sleeping  on  straw  !"  Aye,  that  was  the  rub.  To 
be  sure  we  had  ticks,  but  they  were  about  as  thin  as 
the  insect  of  that  name ;  there  were  about  nine  of  us 
to  a  tent — good  large  Sibley  tents  we  had  at  first — 
and  not  a  night  shirt  among  the  whole  nine.  Re- 
veille was  another  misery.  I  was  three-and- thirty 
years  of  age,  a  born  invalid,  whose  habit  had  been  to 
rise  late,  bathe  leisurely  and  eat  breakfast  after  every- 
body else  was  done.  To  get  up  at  dawn  to  the  sound 
of  fife  and  drum,  to  wash  my  face  in  a  hurry  in  a  tin; 
basin,  wipe  on  a  wet  towel,  and  go  forth  with  a  suf- 
focated skin  and  a  sense  of  uncleanness  to-be  squad- 
drilled  by  a  fat  little  cadet,  young  enough  to  be 
my  son,  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  that,  in- 
deed, was  misery.  How  I  hated  that  little  cadet  1 
He  was  always  so  wide  awake,  so  clean,  so  inter- 
ested in  the  drill ;  his  coat  tails  were  so  short 
and  sharp,  and  his  hands  looked  so  big  in  white 
gloves.  He  made  me  sick.  What  the  deuce  did  I 
care  about  learning  how  to  "hold  my  piece,"  to 
"  load  in  nine  times,"  and  all  that  ?  I  was  furious ; 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  363 

but  at  the  same  time  I  got  up  a  big  appetite  for  break- 
fast, which  was  generally  good,  for  we  lived  pretty 
well  at  Camp  Lee. 

I  recall  a  single  incident  at  Camp  Lee.  The  com- 
pany next  to  ours  was  from  Campbell  county,  I  thinky 
and  composed  almost  wholly  of  illiterate  country- 
men. Hearing  an  animated  conversation  going  on 
towards  their  camp-fire  one  night,  I  drew  nigh  and 
listened.  The  causes  that  led  to  the  war  were  being 
discussed,  and  the  principal  speaker,  a  sergeant,  gave 
an  account  of  the  formation  of  our  government  and 
the  true  theory  of  its  working  on  States-rights  prin- 
ciples that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  constitutional 
lawyer.  On  inquiry  I  learned  that  this  sergeant  was 
by  trade  a  plasterer,  and  what  he  knew  about  the 
government  he  had  learned  from  stump  speakers. 
He  was  a  pretty  fair  specimen  of  the  average  Con- 
federate soldier,  who  knew  what  he  was  about  when 
he  entered  into  the  war. 

One  morning  news  came  that  we  had  been  ordered 
to  Manassas.  It  was  true.  I  was  glad — anything  for 
a  change. 

Garland's  Battalion,  afterwards  the  Eleventh  Vir- 
ginia  Regiment,  was  the  first  organized  body  of 
troops  sent  to  Manassas.  The  battalion  was  com- 
posed of  Company  A,  the  Rifle  Greys ;  Company  B,. 
the  Home  Guard  (both  of  Lynchburg) ;  the  Fincastle 
Rifles,  a  Campbell  county  company,  and  possibly  one 
from  Pittsylvania  county,  but  I  cannot  be  certain. 
All  that  1  remember  is  that  there  were  four  or  five' 
companies.  There  was  some  little  grumbling  in  our 


364  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

-company,  and,  perhaps,  others,  when  it  became  known 
that  Garland  was  to  command  the  battalion,  and  this 
discontent  deepened  when  he  obtained  the  appoint- 
ment of  colonel.  It  was  loudly  whispered  that  he 
had  intrigued  for  the  appointment.  No  one  doubted 
Ids  capacity,  for  he  was  a  graduate  of  the  Virginia 
Military  Institute,  and  a  young  lawyer  of  remark- 
able intelligence,  but,  unfortunately,  he  "  lacked 
grit."  Whereas,  said  the  grumblers,  the  captain 
of  Company  A,  Maurice  S.  Langhorne,  was,  like  all 
the  other  Langhornes,  brave  as  a  lion. 

This  was  the  talk.  I  give  it  as  an  illustration  of 
the  mistake  constantly  made  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  that  animal  bravery  was  the  main  requisite  in  a 
.soldier.  What  a  mistake  !  Bullies  ever  ready  for  a 
brawl  repeatedly  proved  arrant  cowards  on  the  field, 
while  the  cowards,  so-called,  turned  out  to  be  the 
most  gallant  and  skilled  of  soldiers.  Samuel  Gar- 
land was  neither  coward  nor  bully,  but  a  refined, 
.scholarly  gentleman,  whose  courage  in  action  was  so 
conspicuous  and  whose  capacity  so  marked  that  when 
he  fell  at  Boonsboro',  in  the  second  year  of  the  war, 
he  was  acting  major-general,  and  deemed  one  of  the 
most  promising  young  officers  in  the  whole  army. 
In  his  native  city  his  memory  is  sacred ;  he  is  beloved 
and  revered  beyond  any  soldier  that  left  that  portion 
of  the  State.  His  name  is  never  mentioned  without 
honor  and  tenderness. 

It  must  have  been  midday  or  earlier  when  we  left 
Richmond  on  a  train  of  box-cars,  with  tents,  camp 
-equipage,  etc.,  amid  great  cheering  and  enthusiasm, 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  365 

for  this,  mark  you,  was  war,  real  war,  and  no  fool- 
ing about  it.  Oh !  what  asses  men  are !  as  if  that 
were  anything  to  be  jolly  about !  We  went  slowly 
along,  pausing  at  every  station  to  let  the  girls  see  us, 
give  us  bouquets  and  wave  their  handkerchiefs  at  us. 
Being  an  invalid,  I  was  allowed  a  seat  in  a  passenger 
car  with  the  officers,  but  as  the  hot  May  afternoon 
wore  away  I  felt  worse  and  worse.  It  was  night 
when  we  reached  Gordonsville,  seventy-six  miles 
from  Richmond,  and  then  occurred  a  long  halt.. 
Dr.  Chalmers,  who  had  heard  me  complain  about  my 
throat,  came  to  my  seat  and  felt  my  pulse. 

"  You  have  decided  fever,"  said  he,  u  and  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  out  here  and  lie  over 
till  you  get  well.  I  will  leave  some  medicine  with 
you." 

Words  more  welcome  never  issued  from  mortal 
lips — no,  not  even  when  my  lady-love  said  "yes.'r 
There  wTas  a  good  hotel  at  Gordonsville — it  is  there 
now,  and  I  never  pass  it  without  a  benediction — 
kept  by  a  man  named  Omohundro,  who  was  called 
"  M'hundrer  "  for  short.  Into  that  hotel,  and  up  stairs 
to  a  second  story  room,  I  hurried  with  all  speed. 
"Wouldn't  I  have  supper?"  inquired  M'hundrer. 
No,  but  a  bucket  or  a  tub  of  hot  water  by  a  negro 
boy. 

The  bathing  over — how  I  enjoyed  it !  I  dismissed 
the  boy,  put  on  a  night  shirt  that  had  been  dying  for 
three  weeks — at  least  I  had  been  dying  for  it — blew 
out  the  light,  a  wood  fire  was  on  the  hearth,  and  got 
into  bed.  The  sweet  languor  of  fever  was  on  me,. 


'366  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

the  warm  bath  had  softened  my  whole  nature,  bodily 
and  spiritually,  my  skin  began  to  breathe  once  more, 
the  odor  of  the  clean  pillow  cases  was  more  delicious 
than  roses  or  lilies,  and  as  I  stretched  myself  out  at 
full  length  I  actually  tasted  the  clean  sheets  clear 
down  to  my  toes.  You  may  talk  about  happiness^ 
but  there  is  no  greater  happiness  than  I  experienced 
Sii  that  moment.  What  heaven  may  be  I  know  not, 
but  that  was  heaven  enough  for  me.  I  blessed  Chal- 
mers for  advising  me  to  stop,  blessed  the  negro  boy, 
blessed  M'hundrer,  the  hot  water,  the  pillows,  the 
sheets,  the  whole  world,  and  went  to  sleep  vowing 
that  never  again  while  life  lasted  would  I  sleep  in 
anything  but  clean  sheets,  be  the  consequences  what 
they  might  to  the  Southern  Confederacy. 

I  remained  there  two  or  three  days,  taking  as  little 
-medicine  as  possible  and  getting  well  as  slowly  as 
possible.  During  my  stay  a  number  of  trains  went 
by  on  their  way  to  Richmond,  laden  with  the  spoils 
-of  the  arsenal  and  workshops  at  Harper's  Ferry- 
guns,  ammunition  and  machinery  that  was  invaluable 
to  us. 

I  believe  that  Garland  found  Captain  Lay  with  a 
part  of  the  Powhatan  troop  at  Manassas — certainly 
the  place  had  been  picketed  for  a  few  weeks — but 
that  was  all.  Its  strategic  importance  seemed  to 
have  been  overlooked.  On  my  arrival  I  found  the 
boys  comfortably  quartered  in  tents  and  enjoying  the 
-contents  of  boxes  of  good  things,  which  already  had 
begun  coming  from  home.  In  a  little  store  at  the 
station  they  had  discovered  a  lot  of  delicious  cherry 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  367 

brandy,  which  they  were  dispatching  with  thought- 
less haste.  Rigid  military  rule  was  not  yet  enforced, 
and  the  boys  had  a  good  time.  I  saw  no  fun  in  it.  The 
battalion  drill  bore  heavily  upon  me ;  Garland  con- 
stantly forgot  to  give  the  order  to  shift  our  guns  from 
•a  shoulder  to  a  support.  This  gave  me  great  pain, 
made  me  very  mad  and  threw  me  into  a  perspiration, 
which,  owing  to  my  feeble  circulation,  was  easily 
checked  by  the  cold  breeze  from  the  Bull  Run  Moun- 
tain, and  thereby  put  me  in  jeepardy  of  pneumonia. 
Moreover,  I  longed  for  my  night  shirt  and  the  clean 
bed  at  Gordonsville.  The  situation  was  another 
source  of  trouble  to  me.  After  brooding  over  it  a 
good  while  I  got  my  friend  Latham  to  write,  at  my 
dictation,  a  letter  to  John  M.  Daniel's  paper,  the 
Richmond  Examiner.  The  letter  was  not  printed, 
but  handed  to  General  Lee,  and  additional  troops 
began  to  come  rapidly — one  or  two  South  Carolina 
regiments,  the  First  Yirginia  regiment,  Captain 
Shield's  company  of  Richmond  Howitzers,  Latham's 
Lynchburg  Battery,  in  all  of  which,  except  the  regi- 
ments from  South  Carolina,  we  had  hosts  of  friends. 
The  more  men  the  sicker  I  got,  and  the  further  re- 
moved from  that  solitude  which  was  the  delight  of 
my  life.  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  desert,  but  to 
get  killed  at  the  first  opportunity.  I  might  get  a 
clean  shirt,  and  would  certainly  get,  in  the  grave,  all 
the  solitude  I  wanted. 

Beauregard  soon  took  command.  This  was  a  com- 
fort to  us  all.  We  felt  safe.  About  this  time,  too, 
the  wives  a-nd  sisters  of  a  number  of  officers  came 


368  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

from  Lynchburg  on  a  visit  to  the  camp.  That  was 
great  joy  to  us  all.  Lieutenant  Latham's  little  son, 
barely  two  years  old,  and  dressed  in  full  Rifle  Grey 
uniform,  was  the  lion  of  the  hour.  The  ladies  looked 
lovely.  Such  a  relief  after  a  surfeit  of  men ;  our 
eyes  fairly  feasted  on  them.  Other  ladies  put  in  an. 
appearance  from  time  to  time.  Returning  from 
Bristoe,  where  I  had  gone  to  bathe,  my  eyes  fell  on 
three  of  the  most  beautiful  human  beings  they  had 
ever  beheld.  Beautiful  at  any  time  and  place,  they 
were  now  inexpressibly  so  by  reason  of  the  fact  that 
women  were  such  a  rarity  in  camp.  They  were  bright 
figures  on  a  background  of  many  thousand  dingy,  not 
to  say  dirty,  men.  If  I  go  to  heaven — I  hope  I  may — 
the  angels  themselves  will  hardly  look  more  lovely 
than  those  young  ladies  did  that  solitary  afternoon. 
I  was  most  anxious  to  know  their  names.  They 
were  the  Misses  Carey — Hetty  and  Jennie  Carey,  of 
Baltimore,  and  Constance,  their  cousin,  of  Alexan- 
dria. No  man  can  form  an  idea  of  the  rapture  which 
the.  sight  of  a  woman  wrill  bring  him  until  he  absents 
himself  from  the  sex  for  a  long  time.  He  can  then 
perfectly  understand  the  story  about  the  ecstatic 
dance  in  which  some  California  miners  indulged 
when  they  unexpectedly  (fame  upon  an  old  straw 
bonnet  in  the  road.  Pretty  women  head  the  list  of 
earthly  delights. 

Over  and  over  I  heard  the  order  read  at  dress 
parade,  all  closing  with  the  formula,  "by  command 
of  General  Beauregard,  Thomas  Jordan,  A.  A.  G." 
This  went  on  for  some  weeks  without  attracting  any 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  369 

special  attention  on  my  part.  At  last  some  one  said 
in  my  hearing :  "  Beauregard's  adjutant  is  a  Yir- 
ginian."  I  pricked  up  my  ears.  "Wonder  if  he 
can  be  the  Captain  Jordan  I  knew  in  Washington  ? 
I'll  go  and  see,"  I  said  to  myself.  Colonel,  after- 
wards General,  Jordan  received  me  most  cordially, 
dirty  private  though  I  was.  He  was,  as  usual,  very 
busy.  "  Sit  down  a  moment.  I  want  presently  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  you."  My  prophetic  soul  told 
me  something  good  was  coming,  and  when,  after 
some  preliminary  talk  about  unimportant  matters,  he 
said:  "So  you  are  a  'high  private  in  the  rear  rank?'  ': 

"  Yes,"  was  my  reply. 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  drilling?" 

"Tired  to  death." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  very  man  I  want.  Certain 
letters  and  papers  have  to  be  written  in  this  office 
which  ought  to  be  done  by  a  man  of  literary  train- 
ing, and  you  are  just  that  person.  I'll  have  you  de- 
tailed at  once,  and  you  must  report  here  in  the  morn- 
ing. Excuse  me  now,  I  am  very  busy."  Indeed, 
he  was  the  busiest  man  I  almost  ever  saw,  and  to- 
day in  the  office  of  the  Mining  Record^  of  New  York, 
he  is  as  busy  as  ever.  A  more  indefatigable  worker 
than  General  Thomas  Jordan  it  would  be  hard,  if  not 
impossible,  to  find. 

My  duties  at  first  were  very  light.  I  ate  and  slept 
in  camp  as  before,  reported  at  my  leisure  every  morn- 
ing at  headquarters,  and  did  any  writing  that  was  re- 
quired of  me,  General  Jordan's  clerks  being  fully 
competent  to  do  the  great  bulk  of  the  work  in  his 
23 


370  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

office.     The  principal  of  these  clerks  was  quite  a 
young  man,  seventeen  or  eighteen,  perhaps,  and  was 
named  Smith — Clifton  Smith,  of  Alexandria,  Ya. — 
and  a  most  assiduous  and  faithful  youth  he  was.   He 
is  now  a  prosperous  broker  in  New  York.     After 
midnight  Jordan  was  a  perfect  owl ;  there  were  al- 
ways papers  and  letters  of  a  particular  character,  in 
the  preparation  of  which  I  could  be  of  service.     We 
got  through  with  them  generally  by  one  A.  M.,  then 
had  a  little  chat,  sometimes,  though  not  often,  a  glass 
of  whiskey  and  water,  and  then  I  went  back  to  camp, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  not  without  risking  my  life 
at  the  hands  of  a  succession  of  untrained  pickets.    At 
camp  things  were  comparatively  comfortable.     The 
weather  was  so  warm  that  most  of  the  men  pre- 
ferred to  sleep  out  doors  on  the  ground.     I  often 
had  a  tent  to  myself.     Troops  continued  to  come. 
Many  went  by  to  Johnston  (who,  to  our  dismay,  had 
fallen  back  from  Harper's  Ferry),  but  many  stayed. 
Water  began  to  fail,  wells  in  profusion  were  dug, 
but  without  much  avail,  and  water  had  to  be  brought 
by  rail.     Excellent  it  was.     Boxes  of  provisions  con- 
tinued to  come  in  diminishing  numbers,  but  upon  the 
whole  we  lived  tolerably  well.     The  Eleventh  Vir- 
ginia, its  quota  now  filled,  had  gone  out  on  one  or 
two  little  expeditions  without  material  results.      It 
formed  part  of  Longstreet's  Brigade,  and  made  a  fine 
appearance  and  most  favorable  impression  in  the  first 
brigade  drill  that  took  place.     How  thankful  I  was 
that  I  was  not  in  it ! 

During  these  days  when  the  camp  of  the  Eleventh 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  371 

Yirginia  was  comparatively  deserted,  the  men  being 
detailed  at  various  duties,  there  occurred  an  episode 
which  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed 
it.  Coming  down  from  headquarters  about  one  o'clock 
to  get  my  dinner,  I  became  aware  as  soon  as  I  drew 
nigh  our  tents  that  something  unusual  was  "toward," 
.as  Carlyle  would  say.  Sure  enough  there  was.  In 
addition  to  the  ladies  from  Lynchburg,  heretofore 
mentioned,  we  had  been  visited  by  quite  a  number  of 
the  leading  men  of  that  city,  who  came  to  look  after 
their  sons  and  wards.  Several  ministers,  among  them 
the  Rev.  Jacob  D.  Mitchell,  had  come  to  preach  for 
us.  But  now  there  was  a  visitor  of  a  different  stripe. 
The  moment  I  got  within  hailing  distance  of  the 
•captain's  tent  I  heard  a  loud  hearty  voice  call  me  by 
my  first  name. 

"Hello !  George,  what'll  you  have ?  Free  bar.  Got 
^very  liquor  you  can  name.  Call  for  what  you  please." 

Looking  up,  I  beheld  the  bulky  form,  the  dusky- 
red  cheeks  and  sparkling  black  eyes  of  Major  Daniel 
Warwick,  a  Baltimore  merchant,  formerly  of  Lynch- 
burg, who  had  come  to  share  the  fortune,  good  or  ill, 
of  his  native  State.  He  was  the  prince  of  good  fel- 
lows, a  bon  vivant  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term,  a 
Falstaff  in  form  and  in  love  of  fun.  What  he  said 
was  literally  true,  or  nearly  so ;  he  had  all  sorts  of 
liquors.  In  order  to  test  him  I  called  for  a  bottle  of 
London  stout. 

"  Sam,  you scoundrel !  fetch  out  that  stout. 

How'll  you  have  it — plain  ?  Better  let  me  make  you 
a  porteree  this  hot  day." 


372  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

"  Very  good ;  make  it  a  porteree." 

He  was  standing  behind  an  improvised  bar  of  bar- 
rels and  planks,  set  forth  with  decanters,  bottles, 
glasses,  lemons,  oranges  and  pine  apples,  with  his 
boy  Sam  as  his  assistant.  The  porteree,  which  was 
but  one  of  many  that  I  enjoyed  during  the  Major's 
stay,  was  followed  by  a  royal  dinner,  contributed 
almost  wholly  by  the  Major.  This  was  kept  up  for  a 
week  or  ten  days,  officers  and  men  of  the  Lynchburg 
companies  and  invited  guests,  some  of  them  quite 
distinguished,  all  joining  in  the  prolonged  feast,  which 
must  have  cost  the  Major  many  hundreds  of  dollars.. 

The  Major's  inexhaustible  wit  and  humor,  his 
quaint  observations  on  everything  he  saw,  his  san- 
guine predictions  about  the  war  and  his  odd  behavior 
throughout,  were  as  much  of  a  feast  as  his  eatables 
and  drinkables.  He  was  the  greatest  favorite  imagin- 
able. Everything  was  done  to  please  him  and  make 
him  comfortable,  including  a  tent  fitted  up  for  him. 
Being  much  fatigued  by  his  first  day's  experience  as 
an  open  barkeeper,  he  went  to  bed  early,  the  boys 
all  keeping  quiet  to  insure  his  sleeping.  Within 
twenty  minutes  they  heard  him  snoring,  and  the  next 
thing  they  knew  the  tent  burst  wide  open  and  out 
rushed  the  corpulent  Major,  clad  only  in  his  shirt, 
and  as  he  came  he  shouted  at  the  pitch  of  his  sten- 
torian voice:  "Gi'  me  a'r  (air),  gi'  me  a'r!  For 
God's  sake,  gi'  me  a'r !"  Of  course  there  was  a  uni- 
versal burst  of  laughter,  which  the  Major  bore  with 
perfect  good  nature.  Thenceforth  he  slept  on  a 
blanket  under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  enjoying  it  as 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  373 

much,  lie  declared,  as  a  deer  hnnt  in  the  wilds  of 
Western  Virginia.  He  carried  with  him  when  he 
left  the  God-speed  of  hundreds  of  hearts  grateful  for 
the  abundant  and  unexpected  happiness  he  had 
brought  them. 

This  was  that  same  Major  who  cut  up  such  pranks 
in  New  York  city  a  few  months  after  the  war  ended 
— picking  up  a  strong  negro  on  the  street  and  forc- 
ing him  to  eat  breakfast  with  him  at  the  Prescott 
House,  imperiously  ordering  the  white  waiters  to  at- 
tend to  his  every  want,  then  walking  arm  in  arm 
Tvith  the  negro  down  Broadway,  each  having  in  his 
mouth  the  longest  cigar  that  could  be  bought,  and 
puffing  away  at  a  great  rate,  to  the  intense  disgust 
of  the  passers-by.  Of  this  freak  I  was  myself  eye- 
witness. In  the  restaurants  he  would  burst  out  with 
Si  lot  of  Confederate  songs,  and  keep  them  up  till 
scowls  and  oaths  gave  him  to  understand  that  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  continue,  when  he  would 
suddenly  whip  off  into  some  intensely  loyal  air,  leav- 
ing his  auditors  in  doubt  whether  he  was  Union  or 
secesh,  or  simply  a  crank.  In  the  street  cars  and 
omnibuses  he  would  ostentatiously  stand  up  for  negro 
women  as  they  entered,  deposit  their  fare,  gallantly 
help  them  in  and  out,  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  did, 
and  bitterly  inveighing  against  those  who  refused  to 
follow  his  example.  So  pointed  were  his  insults  that 
his  huge  size  alone  saved  him  from  many  a  knock 
down.  He  lived  too  merrily  to  live  long,  and  died 
in  Baltimore  in  1867,  I  believe. 

Ever  since  the  fall  of  Sumter  Beauregard's  star 


374  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

had  been  in  the  ascendant.  His  poetical  name 
seemed  to  carry  a  magical  charm  with  it.  Jordan 
had  implicit  faith  in  him.  Many  others  looked  upon 
him  as  likely  to  be  the  foremost  military  figure  of 
the  war,  and  were  prepared  to  attach  themselves  to 
his  fortunes.  Keeping  my  place  as  a  private  detailed 
for  duty  in  the  Adjutant's  office,  I  contented  myself 
with  a  simple  introduction  to  the  General,  and  did 
not  presume  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him — a 
privilege  most  editors  would  have  claimed.  [I  was 
then  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.'}  But 
I  availed  myself  of  my  opportunity  to  study  this  pro- 
minent character  in  the  pending  struggle.  His 
athletic  figure,  the  leonine  formation  of  his  head, 
his  large  dark-brown  eyes  and  his  broad,  low  fore- 
head indicated  courage  and  capacity.  Of  his  men- 
tal calibre  I  could  not  judge,  but  others  spoke 
highly  of  it.  He  indefatigably  studied  the  country 
around  Manassas,  riding  out  every  day  with  the 
engineer  officers  and  members  of  his  staff.  He  was 
eminently  polite,  patient  and  good-natured.  I  never 
knew  him  to  lose  his  temper  but  once,  and  then  the 
occasion  was  ludicrous  in  the  extreme. 

Just  before  the  battle  of  Manassas  the  militia  of 
all  the  adjoining  counties  were  called  out  in  utmost 
haste  to  swell  our  numbers.  A  colonel  of  one  of 
the  militia  regiments,  arrayed  in  old  style  cocked  hat 
and  big  epaulettes,  came  up  a  morning  or  two  before 
the  battle  and  asked  to  see  the  General.  When 
General  Beauregard  appeared,  he  said  with  utmost 
sincerity : 


AN  UNKENOWNED  WAKRIOK.  375 

"  General  Beauregard,  my  men  are  mostly  men  of 
families.  They  left  home  in  a  hurry,  without  enough 
coffee  pots,  frying  pans  and  blankets,  and  they  would 
like,  sir,  to  go  back  for  a  few  days  to  get  these  things 
and  to  compose  their  minds,  which  is  oneasy  about 
their  families,  their  craps  and  many  other  things.'"' 

Beauregard's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  Do  you  see  that  sun,  sir  ?"  pointing  to  it. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  wondering  timidity. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  might  as  well  attempt  to  pull  down 
that  sun  from  heaven  as  to  allow  your  men  to  re- 
turn home  at  a  critical  moment  like  this.  Go  tell 
your  men  to  prepare  for  battle  at  any  instant.  There 
is  no  telling  when  it  may  come." 

The  Colonel  retreated  in  confusion. 

Beauregard's  high  qualities  as  an  engineer — most 
signally  proved  by  his  subsequent  defence  of  Charles- 
ton, compared  with  which  the  reduction  of  Sumter 
was  a  trifle — were  acknowledged  on  all  hands.  What 
he  would  be  at  the  head  of  an  army  in  the  open  field 
remained  to  be  seen.  It  was  a  trying  time  for  him ; 
but  if  he  were  nervous  no  one  discovered  it. 

His  staff  was  composed  mostly  of  young  South 
Carolinians  of  good  family,  and  he  had  in  addition  a 
number  of  volunteer  aids,  all  of  them  men  of  distinc- 
tion. Ex-Governor  James  Chestnut  was  one,  I  think. 
William  Porcher  Miles,  an  accomplished  scholar  and 
elegant  gentleman,  I  am  sure  was.  So  was  that  grand 
specimen  of  manhood,  Colonel  John  S.  Preston ;  also, 
Ex-Governor  Manning,  a  most  charming  and  agree- 
able companion.  His  juleps,  made  of  his  own  dark 


376  AN  UNKENOWNED  WARRIOK. 

brandy  and  served  at  midday  in  a  large  bucket,  in 
lieu  of  something  better,  greatly  endeared  him  to  us 
all.  'One  day  all  these  distinguished  gentlemen  sud- 
denly disappeared.  Colonel  Jordan  simply  said  they 
had  gone  to  Richmond  ;  but  evidently  something  was 
in  the  wind.  What  could  it  be?  On  their  return, 
after  a  week's  absence,  as  well  as  I  remember,  there 
was  an  ominous  hush  about  the  whole  proceeding. 
Nobody  had  anything  to  say,  but  there  was  a  graver, 
less  happy  atmosphere  at  headquarters.  Gradually  it 
leaked  out  that  Mr.  Davis  had  rejected  Beauregard's 
proposal  that  Johnston  should  suddenly  join  him  and 
the  two  should  attack  McDowell  unawares  and  unpre- 
pared. The  mere  refusal  could  not  have  caused  so 
much  feeling  at  headquarters.  There  must  have  been 
aggravating  circumstances,  but  what  they  were  I 
never  learned.  All  I  could  get  from  Colonel  Jordan 
was  a  lifting  of  the  eyebrows,  and  "Mr.  Davis  is  a 
peculiar  man.  He  thinks  he  knows  more  than  every- 
body else  combined." 

What !  want  of  confidence  in  our  president,  at  this 
early  stage  of  the  game  ?  Impossible !  A  vague 
alarm  filled  me.  I  had  been  the  first — the  very  first, 
I  believe — to  nominate  Mr.  Davis  for  the  Presidency ; 
had  violated  the  traditions  of  the  oldest  Southern  lit- 
erary journal  in  doing  so.  I  had  no  personal  know- 
ledge of  his  fitness  for  the  position.  No.  But  his 
record  as  a  soldier  in  Mexico,  his  experience  as  Min- 
ister of  War,  and  his  fame  as  a  statesman,  seemed  to 
point  him  out  as  the  man  ordained  by  Providence  to 
be  our  leader.  And  now  so  soon  distrusted !  1  tried 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  377 

to  dismiss  the  whole  thing  from  my  mind,  it  dis- 
tressed me  so.  But  it  would  not  down  at  my  bid- 
ding. Many  prominent  men  came  to  look  after  the 
troops  of  their  respective  States,  sometimes  in  an  offi- 
cial capacity,  sometimes  of  their  own  accord.  Among 
them  was  Thomas  L.  Clingman,  of  North  Carolina, 
with  whom  I  had  a  slight  acquaintance.  How  it 
came  about  I  quite  forget,  but  we  took  a  walk,  one 
afternoon,  down  the  Warrenton  road,  and  fell  to  talk- 
ing about  the  subject  uppermost  in  my  thoughts — 
Mr.  Davis.  Clingman  seemed  to  know  his  character 
thoroughly,  and  fortified  his  opinions  by  facts  of  re- 
cent date  at  Montgomery  and  Richmond.  Particu- 
lars need  not  be  given,  if,  indeed,  I  could  recall 
them ;  but  the  upshot  of  it  all  was,  that  in  the  opinion 
of  many  wise  men  the  choice  of  Jefferson  Davis  as 
President  of  the  Confederate  States  was  a  profound, 
perhaps  a  fatal,  mistake.  Unable  to  controvert  a  sin- 
gle position  taken  by  Clingman,  my  heart  sank  low, 
and  never  fully  rallied,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that 
Mr.  Davis'  career  confirmed  all  that  Clingman  had 
said — all  and  more. 

As  the  plot  thickened,  so  did  occurrences  in  and 
:around  headquarters.  Beauregard  kept  open  house, 
.as  it  were,  many  people  dropping  in  to  the  several 
meals,  some  by  invitation,  others  not.  The  fare  was 
plain,  wholesome  and  abundant,  rice  cooked  in  South 
Carolina  style  being  a  favorite  dish  for  breakfast  as 
well  as  dinner.  The  new  brigadiers  also  dropped  in 
upon  us  from  time  to  time.  One  of  them  was  my 
old  school-mate,  Robert  E.  Rodes,  a  Lynch  burger  by 


378  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

birth,  but  now  in  command  of  Alabama  troops.  In 
him  Beauregard  had  special  confidence,  giving  him 
the  front  as  McDowell  approached.  Rodes  was 
killed  in  the  Valley  in  1864,  a  general  of  division, 
full  of  promise,  a  man  of  ability,  a  first-rate  soldier. 
Lynchburg  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  two  such  men 
as  Garland  and  Rodes.  Soldiers  continued  to  arrive^ 
As  fast  as  they  came  they  were  sent  toward  Bull 
Run,  that  being  our  line  of  defence.  Some  regi- 
ments excited  general  admiration  by  their  fine  per- 
sonal appearance,  their  excellent  equipment  and 
soldierly  bearing.  None  surpassed  the  First  Vir- 
ginia Regiment  in  neatness  or  in  drill — in  truth,  few 
approached  it.  The  poorest  set  as  to  size,  looks  and 
dress  were  some  of  the  South  Carolinians.  Louisiana 
sent  a  fine  body  of  men.  But  by  odds  the  best  of 
our  troops  were  the  Texans.  Gamer  men  never 
trod  the  earth.  In  their  eyes  and  in  their  every 
movement  they  showed  fight,  and  their  career  from. 
first  to  last  demonstrated  the  truth,  in  their  case  at 
least,  of  the  old  Latin  adage,  "  Vultus  index  est 
animi" — the  face  tells  the  character.  I  verily  be- 
lieve that  fifty  thousand  Texans  such  as  those  who 
came  to  Virginia,  properly  handled,  could  whip  any 
army  the  North  could  muster. 

But  as  a  whole  our  men  did  not  compare  with  the 
Union  soldiery.  They  were  not  so  large  of  limb,  SO' 
deep  in  the  chest  or  so  firm-set,  and  in  arms  and. 
clothing  the  comparison  was  still  more  damaging  to 
the  South.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  lingered  in 
Washington  till  he  could  linger  no  longer,  halted  a. 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  3791 

day  at  Manassas  on  his  way  to  his  old  home  in  Cul- 
peper  county.  With  great  pride  I  called  his  atten- 
tion to  Hays'  magnificent  Louisiana  regiment,  one 
thousand  four  hundred  strong,  drawn  out  full  length 
at  dress  parade.  He  shook  his  head,  sighed  heavily, 
and  described  the  stout-built,  superbly  equipped  men 
he  had  seen  pouring  by  thousands  upon  thousands 
down  Pennsylvania  avenue.  This  incident  made  lit- 
tle impression  011  me  at  the  time,  my  friend  being  of 
a  despondent  nature ;  but  after  my  talk  with  Colonel 
Clingman  it  returned  to  me,  and,  I  confess,  de- 
pressed me  not  a  little. 

The  camps  were  now  deserted,  the  regiments  being 
picketed  on  Bull  Run.  It  was  painful  for  me  to  go 
among  the  empty  tents ;  it  was  like  wandering  about 
college  in  vacation — nay,  worse,  for  it  was  morally 
certain  that  some,  perhaps  many,  would  return  to  the 
tents  no  more.  I  missed  the  faces  of  my  friends; 
I  longed  for  the  lemonade  "with  a  stick  in  it"  that 
Captain  Shields  and  Dr.  Palmer  used  to  give  when- 
ever I  made  them  a  visit,  and  I  really  pined  for  the 
red  shirt  and  cherry  voice  of  Captain  H.  Grey 
Latham,  as  he  went  from  tent  to  tent,  telling  them 
new  jokes,  and  on  leaving,  repeating  his  farewell 
formula,  "Yours  truly,  John  Dooley,"  which  actu- 
ally got  to  be  funny  by  perpetual  repetition  and  be- 
came a  by-word  throughout  the  army.  Finally  I  got 
so  sick  of  the  deserted  camp  that  I  asked  Clifton 
Smith  to  let  me  share  his  pallet  in  the  little  shed- 
room  cut  off  from  the  porch  at  headquarters.  He 
kindly  assented,  and  I  moved  up,  but  still  took  my 


380  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

meals  at  camp.  Doleful  eating  it  would  have  been 
but  for  the  occasional  presence  of  my  dear  friend, 
Lieutenant  Woodville  Latham,  who,  being  judge  of 
a  court-martial  then  in  session,  had  not  yet  joined 
the  Eleventh  Virginia  at  Bull  Run. 

The  nights  were  so  hot  that  I  found  it  almost  im- 
possible to  sleep  in  Clifton  Smith's  little  shed-room. 
My  mind  was  excited  by  the  approaching  battle,  and 
my  habit  of  afternoon  napping  added  to  my  sleep- 
lessness. So  the  little  sleep  I  got  was  in  a  chair  in 
the  porch.  Near  me,  on  the  dinner  table,  too  long 
for  any  room  in  the  house,  lay  young  Goolsby,  a  lad 
of  sixteen,  who  acted  as  night  orderly.  The  calls 
upon  him  were  so  frequent  and  the  pain  of  being 
awakened  so  great,  that  finally  I  said  to  him :  "  Sleep 
on,  Goolsby,  I'll  take  your  place."  He  was  very 
grateful.  So  I  played  night  orderly  from  12  o'clock 
till  6  A.  M.  thenceforward,  and  on  that  account  slept 
the  longer  and  the  harder  in  the  afternoon.  Near 
sunset  on  the  18th  I  arose  from  Smith's  pallet  in  the 
shed-room,  washed  my  face  and  walked  out  upon 
the  porch.  It  was  filled  with  officers  and  men,  all 
looking  toward  Bull  Hun.  One  of  them  said : 

"  That's  heavier  firing  than  any  I  heard  during  the 
war  in  Mexico." 

"It  was  certainly  very  heavy,"  was  the  reply, 
"but  it  seems  to  be  over  now." 

And  that  is  all  I  know  about  the  battle  of  the  18th. 
I  had  slept  through  the  whole  of  it !  Major  Harrison, 
of  our  regiment,  was  killed ;  Colonel  Moore,  of  the 
First  Virginia  Regiment,  and  Lieutenant  James  H. 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  381 

Lee,  of  the  same  regiment,  were  wounded,  the  latter 
seriously,  as  it  turned  out.  There  were  no  other  casu- 
alties that  particularly  interested  me. 

Every  one  knew  the  ordeal  was  at  hand.  The 
movements  preceding  the  great  tragedy  had  the 
hurry  and  convergence  which  belong  to  all  catas- 
trophes. A  confused  mixture  of  memories  is  left 
me — things  relevant  and  irrelevant.  L.  W.  Sprattr 
Thomas  H.  Wynne,  Mrs.  Bradley  T.  Johnson, — the 
big  guns  of  the  entrenched  camp ;  the  night  arrival 
of  Johnston's  staff,  the  parting  with  my  friend 
Latham — all  these  and  many  more  recollections  are 
piled  up  in  my  mind.  Beauregard's  plan  of  battle 
had  been  approved  by  General  Johnston.  Ewell  was 
to  attack  McDowell's  left  at  early  dawn,  flank  him, 
and  cut  him  off  from  Washington,  our  other  brigades 
from  left  to  right  co-operating.  Until  midnight  and 
later  all  of  Colonel  Jordan's  clerks  were  busy  copy- 
ing the  battle  orders,  which  were  at  once  sent  off  to 
the  divisions  and  brigades  by  couriers.  I  myself 
made  many  copies.  The  last  sentence  I  remember 
to  this  day;  it  read  as  follows:  "In  case  the  enemy 
is  defeated  he  is  to  be  pursued  by  cavalry  and  artil- 
ery  until  he  is  driven  across  the  Potomac."  He 
needed  no  pursuit,  but  went  across  the  Potomac  all 
the  same.  No,  not  all  the  same.  Had  we  followed 
in  force  the  result  might  have  been  different.  I  sat 
up  as  usual  that  night,  but  recall  no  event  of  interest. 

As  morning  dawned,  I  wondered  and  wondered 
why  no  sound  of  battle  was  heard — none  except  the 
distant  roar  of  Long  Tom,  which  set  the  enemy  in 


382  AN  TJNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

motion.  How  Ewell  failed  to  get  his  order,  how  our 
plan  of  battle  failed  in  consequence,  and  how  near  we 
came  to  defeat,  is  known  to  all.  'Tis  an  old,  and  to 
Confederates,  a  sad  story. 

On  the  morning  of  the  18th,  as  Beauregard  walked 
out  to  mount  his  horse,  he  stumbled  and  came  near 
falling — a  bad  augury,  which,  we  thought,  brought  a 
shadow  over  his  face.  But  on  this  morning,  the 
21st,  all  went  well;  the  generals  and  their  staffs, 
after  an  early  breakfast,  rode  off  in  high  spirits,  vic- 
tory in  their  very  eyes.  My  duty  was  to  look  after 
the  papers  of  the  office,  which  had  been  hastily 
packed  up,  and,  in  case  of  danger,  see  that  they  were 
put  on  board  a  train,  which  was  held  in  readiness  to 
receive  them  and  other  valuable  effects.  The  earth 
seemed  to  vomit  men ;  they  came  in  from  all  sides. 
Holmes,  from  Fredericksburg,  at  the  head  of  his 
.division,  in  a  high-crown,  very  dusty  beaver,  I  well 
recollect.  He  made  me  laugh.  Barksdale,  of  Missis- 
sippi, halting  his  regiment  to  get  ammunition.  The 
militia  ensconced  behind  the  earthworks  of  the  en- 
trenched camp,  their  figures  flit  before  me.  It  was  a 
superb  Sabbath  day,  cloudless,  and  at  first  not  very 
hot.  A  sweet  breeze  from  the  west  blew  in  my  face 
&s  I  stood  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  vale  of  Bull  Run. 
I  saw  the  enormous  column  of  dust  made  by  the 
«nemy  as  they  advanced  upon  our  left.  The  field  of 
battle  evidently  would  be  where  the  comet,  then  il- 
luminating the  skies,  seemed  to  rest  at  night.  Re- 
turning to  headquarters  I  reported  to  Colonel  Jor- 
dan the  movement  upon  our  left. 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  383 

"Has  McDowell  done  that?"  lie  asked,  with  ani- 
mation. "Then  Beauregard  will  give  him  all  his 
old  boots,  for  that  is  exactly  where  we  want  him." 

The  Colonel  meant  that  Ewell  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  attack  by  reason  of  the  weakening  of  Mc- 
Dowell's left. 

Again  and  again  I  walked  out  to  watch  the  pro- 
gress of  the  battle,  which  lasted  a  great  deal  longer 
than  I  expected  or  desired.  The  pictures  of  battles 
at  a  distance,  in  the  English  illustrated  papers,  give  a 
good  idea  of  what  I  saw,  minus  the  stragglers  and  the 
wounded,  who  came  out  in  increasing  numbers  as  the 
day  advanced,  and  disheartening  President  Davis  as 
he  rode  out  to  the  field  in  the  afternoon.  At  noon  or 
thereabouts,  a  report  that  our  centre  had  been  broken 
hurried  me  back  to  headquarters,  and  although  the 
report  proved  false,  kept  me  there  for  several  hours, 
the  battle  meanwhile  raging  fiercely,  and  not  a  sound 
from  Ewell. 

Restless  and  excited,  I  went  into  a  neighboring 
house,  occupied  by  a  lone  woman,  who  was  in  a  peck 
of  trouble  about  herself,  her  house,  her  everything. 
The  bigger  trouble  outside  filled  my  mind  during  the 
recital  of  her  woes,  so  that  I  now  recall  none  of  them. 

Unable  longer  to  bear  the  suspense,  I  left  import- 
.ant  papers,  etc.,  to  take,  care  of  themselves,  and  set 
out  for  the  battle-field,  determined  to  go  in  and  get 
j*id  of  my  fears  and  doubts  by  action.  I  reached  the 
hill  which  I  had  so  often  visited  in  the  morning,  and 
paused  awhile  to  look  at  some  of  our  troops,  who 
were  rapidly  moving  from  our  right  to  our  left.  Just 


384  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

then — can  I  ever  forget  it  ? — there  came,  as  it  seemed,, 
an  instantaneous  suppression  of  firing,  and  almost 
immediately  a  cheer  went  up  and  ran  along  the  val- 
ley from  end  to  end  of  our  line.  It  meant  victory — 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact.  I  stood  perfectly 
still,  feeling  no  exultation  whatever.  An  indescrib- 
able thankful  sadness  fell  upon  me,  rooting  me  to  the 
spot  and  plunging  me  into  a  deep  reverie,  which  for 
a  long  time  prevented  me  from  seeing  or  hearing 
what  went  forward.  Night  had  nearly  fallen  when 
I  came  to  myself  and  started  homeward.  The  road 
was  filled  with  wounded  men,  their  friends  and  a  few 
prisoners.  I  spoke  kindly  to  the  prisoners,  and  took 
in  charge  a  badly  wounded  young  man,  carrying  him 
to  the  hospital,  from  the  back  windows  of  which  am- 
putated legs  and  arms  had  already  been  thrown  on 
the  ground  in  a  sickening  pile. 

At  headquarters  there  was  a  great  crowd  waiting 
for  the  generals  and  Mr.  Davis  to  return.  It  was 
now  quite  dark.  A  deal  of  talking  went  on,  but  I 
observed  little  elation.  People  were  worn  out  with 
excitement — too  many  had  been  killed — how  many 
and  who  was  yet  to  be  learned.  War  is  a  sad 
business,  even  to  the  victors.  I  saw  young  George 
Burwell,  fourteen  years  of  age,  bring  in  Colonel  Cor- 
coran, his  personal  captive.  I  heard  Colonel  Porcher 
Miles's  withering  retort  to  Congressman  Ely,  who 
tried  to  claim  friendly  acquaintance  with  him,  but 
went  off  abashed  in  a  linen  duster  with  the  other 
prisoners.  I  asked  Colonel  Preston  what  he  thought 
of  the  day's  work. 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  385 

"A  glorious  victory,  which  will  produce  immense 
results,"  was  his  reply. 

"  When  will  we  advance  ?" 
"  We  will  be  in  Baltimore  next  week." 
How  far  wrong  even  the  wisest  are  ?     We  never 
entered  Baltimore,  and  that  victorious  army,  one- 
half  of  which  had  barely  fired  a  shot,  did  not  fight 
.another  pitched  battle  for  nearly  a  year ! 

It  was  after  midnight  when  I  carried  to  the  tele- 
graph office  Mr.  Davis'  dispatch  announcing  the  vic- 
tory. Inside  the  entrenched  camp  one  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  prisoners  were  herded,  the  militia 
standing  up  side  by  side  guarding  them  and  forming 
.a  human  picket  fence,  funny  to  behold.  It  was  clear 
.as  a  bell  when  I  walked  back ;  the  baleful  comet  hung 
over  the  field  of  battle ;  all  was  very  still ;  I  could 
almost  hear  the  beating  of  my  tired  heart,  that  had 
gone  through  so  much  that  day.  Too  much  ex- 
hausted to  play  orderly,  I  slept  in  my  chair  like  a 
top. 

The  next  day,  Monday,  the  22nd,  it  rained,  a 
steady,  straight  down-pour  the  livelong  day.  Every- 
body flocked  to  headquarters.  Not  one  word  was 
said  about  a  forward  movement  upon  Washington. 
We  had  too  many  generals -in -chief;  we  were 
Southerners ;  we  didn't  fancy  marching  in  the  mud 
and  rain — we  threw  away  a  grand  opportunity.  For 
days,  for  weeks,  you  might  say,  our  friends  kept 
coming  from  Alexandria,  saying  with  wonder  and 
impatience :  "  Why  don't  you  come  on  ?  Why  stay 
here  doing  nothing  ?"  No  sufficient  answer,  in  my 
24 


386  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOK. 

poor  judgment,  was  ever  given.  The  dead  and  the 
dying  were  forgotten  in  the  general  burst  of  con- 
gratulation. Now  and  then  you  would  hear  the  loss 
of  Bee  and  Bartow  deplored,  or  of  some  individual 
friend  it  would  be  said :  "  Yes,  he  is  gone,  poor  fel- 
low ;"  but  this  was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  joyous 
hubbub  over  the  victory.  How  proud  and  happy 
we  were.  Didn't  we  know  that  we  could  whip  the 
Yankees  ?  Hadn't  we  always  said  so  ?  Henceforth 
it  would  be  easy  sailing — the  war  would  soon  be 
over,  too  soon  for  all  the  glory  we  felt  sure  of  gain- 
ing. What  fools ! 

Captain  H.  Grey  Latham,  in  his  red  shirt,  was  a 
conspicuous  figure  at  headquarters.  His  battery  had 
covered  itself  with  renown;  congratulations  were 
showered  upon  him.  I  saw  Captain  (afterwards 
Colonel,  on  Lee's  staff)  Henry  E.  Peyton  come  over 
from  General  Beauregard's  room  blazing  with  excite- 
ment and  exaltation.  Yesterday  he  was  a  private — 
now  he  was  a  captain,  promoted  by  Beauregard  first 
of  all  because  of  his  signal  gallantry  on  the  field. 

"By !"  he  exclaimed  to  me,  "when  I  die,  I 

intend  to  die  gloriously."  Alas!  Colonel  Peyton, 
confidential  clerk  of  the  United  States  Senate  and 
owner  of  one  of  the  best  farms  in  Loudoun  county, 
is  like  to  die  in  his  bed  as  ingloriously  as  the  rest  of 
us. 

A  young  Mr.  Fauntleroy,  desiring  an  interview 
with  General  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  I  offered  to  pro- 
cure it  for  him,  and  pushed  through  the  crowd  to 
the  table  at  which  he  sat.  "Excuse  me,  General 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  38T 

Johnston,"  I  began.  "Excuse  me,  sir!"  he  replied, 
in  tones  that  sent  me  away  in  a  state  of  demoraliza- 
tion. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  is  the  coming  on  of 
night,  and  my  resuming  my  post  as  night  orderly. 
I  was  seldom  aroused,  and  slept  soundly  in  a  chair, 
tilted  back  against  the  wall.  In  the  yard  just  in 
front  of  me  were  a  number  of  tents,  one  of  which 
was  occupied  by  President  Davis.  The  rising  sun 
awakened  me,  My  eyes  were  still  half  open  when 
Mr.  Davis  stepped  out  of  his  tent,  in  full  dress,  hav- 
ing made  his  toilet  with  care.  Seeing  no  one  but  a 
private,  apparently  asleep  in  a  chair,  he  looked  about, 
turned  and  slowly  walked  to  the  yard  fence,  on  the 
other  side  of  which  a  score  or  more  of  captured  can- 
non were  parked,  Long  Tom  being  conspicuous.  The 
President  stood  and  looked  at  the  cannon  for  ten 
minutes  or  more.  Having  never  seen  him  close  at 
hand,  I  went  up  and  looked  at  the  cannon  too,  but 
in  reality  I  was  looking  at  him  most  intently. 

That  was  the  turning  point  in  my  life.  Had  I 
gone  up  to  him,  made  myself  known,  told  him  what 
I  had  done  in  his  behalf,  and  asked  something  in  re- 
turn, my  career  in  life  would  almost  certainly  have 
been  far  different.  We  were  alone.  It  was  an  au- 
spicious time  to  ask  favors — just  after  a  great  vic- 
tory— and  he  was  very  responsive  to  personal  ap- 
peals. My  prayer  would  have  been  heard.  In 
that  event  I  should  have  become  a  member  of  his 
political  and  military  family,  or,  what  would  have 
suited  me  much  better,  have  gone  to  London,  as 


388  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

John  K.  Thompson  afterwards  did,  to  pursue  in 
the  interest  of  the  Confederacy  my  calling  as  a 
journalist.  But  Clingman's  talk  had  done  its  work. 
Already  prejudiced  against  Mr.  Davis,  his  face, 
as  I  examined  it  that  fateful  morning,  lacked — 
or  seemed  to — the  elements  that  might  have  over- 
come my  prejudices.  There  was  no  magnetism  in 
it — it  did  not  draw  me.  Yet  his  voice  was  sweet, 
musical  in  a  high  degree,  and  that  might  have  drawn 
me  had  I  but  spoken  to  him.  I  could  not  force  my- 
self to  open  my  lips,  but  walked  back  to  my  chair  on 
the  open  porch,  and  my  lot  in  life  was  decided. 

General  Beauregard  removed  his  headquarters  to 
the  house  of  Mr.  Ware,  some  distance  from  Manassas 
Station,  a  commodious  brick  building,  in  winch  our 
friend,  Lieutenant  James  K.  Lee,  lay  wounded.  Mr. 
Ware's  family  remained,  but  most  of  the  house  was 
given  up  to  us.  I  slept  in  the  garret  with  the  soldier 
detailed  to  nurse  Lieutenant  Lee.  In  the  yard  were 
a  number  of  tents  occupied  by  the  General  and  his 
staff.  Colonel  Jordan's  office  was  in  the  house.  My 
duty,  hitherto  light  and  pleasant,  now  became  some- 
what heavy  and  disagreeable.  I  had  to  file  and  for- 
ward applications  for  furlough,  based  mainly  upon 
surgeons'  certificates.  This  brought  me  in  contact 
with  many  unlovely  people,  each  anxious  to  have  his 
case  attended  to  at  once.  It  was  very  worrying. 
Others  besides  myself,  the  clerks  and  staff  officers, 
seemed  to  be  as  much  worried  by  their  labors  as  I 
was  by  mine.  Fact  is,  young  Southern  gentlemen, 
used  to  having  their  own  way,  found  it  hard  to  be  at 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  389 

the  beck  and  call  of  anybody.  The  excitement  of 
battle  over,  the  detail  of  business  was  pure  drudgery. 
We  detested  it. 

The  long,  hot  days  of  August  dragged  themselves 
away.  No  advance,  no  sign  of  it ;  the  men  in  camp 
playing  cards,  the  officers  horse  racing.  This  dis- 
heartened me  more  than  all  things  else,  but  I  kept 
my  thoughts  to  myself.  At  night  I  would  walk  out 
in  the  garden  and  brood  over  the  possible  result  of 
this  slow  way  of  making  war.  The  garden  looked 
toward  the  battle-field.  At  times  I  thought  I  de- 
tected the  odor  of  the  carcasses,  lightly  buried  there ; 
at  others  I  fancied  I  heard  weird  and  doleful  cries 
borne  on  the  night  wind.  I  grew  melancholy. 

Twice  or  thrice  a  day  I  went  in  to  see  Lieutenant 
Lee.  Bright  and  hopeful  of  recovery,  he  gave  his 
friends  a  cheery  welcome  and  an  invitation  to  share 
the  abundant  good  things  with  which  his  mother  and 
sisters  kept  him  supplied.  A  visit  to  his  sick  cham- 
ber was  literally  a  treat.  The  chances  seemed  all  in 
his  favor  for  two  weeks  or  more  after  our  arrival  at 
the  Warehouse,  but  then  there  came  a  change  for  the 
worse,  and  soon  the  symptoms  were  such  that  his 
kinsman,  Peachy  R.  Grattan,  Reporter  of  the  Court 
of  Appeals,  was  sent  for.  He  rallied  a  little,  but  we 
saw  the  end  was  nigh.  Mr.  Grattan  promised  to 
send  for  me  during  the  night  in  case  anything  hap- 
pened, and  at  two  o'clock  I  was  called.  The  long  re- 
spiration preceding  death  had  set  in.  Mr.  Grattan, 
kneeling  at  the  bedside,  was  praying  aloud.  The 
prayer  ended,  he  called  the  dying  officer  by  name. 


390  AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR. 

"  James"  (louder),  "  James,  is  there  anything  you  wish 
done  ?"  Lieutenant  Lee  murmured  an  inarticulate 
response,  made  an  apparent  effort  to  remove  the  ring 
from  the  finger  of  his  left-hand,  and  sank  back  into 
the  last  slumber.  I  waited  an  hour  in  silence ;  still 
the  long-drawn  breathing  kept  up. 

"  No  need  to  wait  longer,"  said  Mr.  Grattan ;  "  he 
will  not  rouse  any  more." 

I  went  to  my  pallet  in  the  garret,  but  could  not 
sleep ;  at  dawn  I  was  down  again.  The  long  breath- 
ing continued ;  Mr.  Grattan  sat  close  to  the  head  of 
the  bed  and  I  stood  at  the  foot,  my  gaze  fixed  on  the 
dying  man's  face.  Suddenly  both  his  eyes  opened 
wide;  there  was  no  "speculation"  in  them,  but  the 
whole  room  seemed  flooded  with  their  preternatural 
light.  Just  then  the  sun  rose,  and  his  eyes  closed  in 
everlasting  darkness,  to  open,  I  doubt  not,  in  ever- 
lasting day.  So  passed  away  the  spirit  of  James  K. 
Lee. 

A  furlough  was  given  me  to  accompany  the  re- 
mains to  Richmond,  with  indefinite  leave  of  absence, 
there  being  no  sign  of  active  hostilities.  In  view  of 
my  infirm  health  a  discharge  was  granted  me  after 
my  arrival  in  Richmond,  and  thus  ended  the  record 
of  an  unrenowned  warrior. 

Let  me  say  a  word  or  two  in  conclusion.  In 
1861  I  was  thirty-three  years  old ;  now  I  am 
fifty-five,  gray  and  aged  beyond  my  years  by  many 
afflictions.  I  wanted  to  see  a  great  war,  saw 
it,  and  pray  God  I  may  never  see  another. 
I  recall  what  General  Duff  Green,  an  ardent 


AN  UNRENOWNED  WARRIOR.  391 

Southerner,  said  in  "Washington  in  the  winter  of 
1861  to  some  hot-heads:  "Anything,  anything  but 
war."  So  said  William  C.  Rives  to  some  young 
men  in  Richmond  just  after  the  fall  of  Sumter. 
"  Young  gentlemen,  you  are  eager  for  war — you  lit- 
tle know  what  it  is  you  are  so  anxious  to  see." 
Those  old  men  were  right.  War  is  simply  horrible. 
The  filth,  the  disease,  the  privation,  the  suffering,  the 
mutilation,  and,  above  all,  the  debasement  of  public 
and  private  morals,  leave  to  war  scarcely  a  redeem- 
ing feature. 


JUD.  BBOWNIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  RU- 
BENSTEIFS  PLAYING. 


"  "1TUD,  they  say  you  heard  Rubenstein  play,  when 
f_/  you  were  in  New  York."  , 

"I  did,  in  the  cool." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  it." 

"  What !  me  ?  I  might's  well  tell  you  about  the- 
creation  of  the  world." 

"Come,  now;  no  mock  modesty.     Go  ahead." 

"Well,  sir,  he  had  the  blamedest  biggest,  catty- 
cornedest  pianner  you  ever  laid  eyes  on;  somethin' 
like  a  distractid  billiard  table  on  three  legs.  The  lid 
was  heisted,  and  mighty  well  it  was.  If  it  hadn't 
been  he'd  a-tore  the  intire  insides  clean  out,  and  scat- 
tered 'em  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven." 

"Played  well,  did  he?" 

"  You  bet  he  did ;  but  don't  interrup'  me.  When 
he  first  set  down  he  'peard  to  keer  mighty  little 
'bout  playin',  and  wished  he  hadn'  come.  He 
tweedle-leedled  a  little  on  the  trible,  and  twoodle- 
oodle-oodled  some  on  the  base — just  foolin'  and 
boxin'  the  thing's  jaws  for  bein'  in  his  way.  And  I 
says  to  a  man  settin'  next  to  me,  s'l,  'what  sort  of 
fool  playin'  is  that  ?'  And  he  says,  "  Heish !'  But 
presently  his  hands  commenced  chasin'  one  'nother  up 


393 

and  down  the  keys,  like  a  passel  of  rats  scamperin5 
through  a  garret  very  swift.  Parts  of  it  was  sweet, 
though,  and  reminded  me  of  a  sugar  squirrel  turnin' 
the  wheel  of  a  candy  cage. 

" f  Now,"  I  says  to  my  neighbor, <  he's  showin'  off. 
He  thinks  he's  a  doing  of  it ;  but  he  ain't  got  no  idee, 
no  plan  of  nuthin'.  If  he'd  play  me  up  a  tune  of 
somekind  or  other,  I'd — ' 

"  But  my  neighbor  says  <  Heish  /'  very  impatient. 

"I  was  just  about  to  git  up  and  go  home,  bein' 
tired  of  that  foolishness,  when  I  heard  a  little  bird 
waking  up  away  off  in  the  woods,  and  calling  sleepy- 
like  to  his  mate,  and  I  looked  up  and  I  see  that  Ru- 
ben was  beginnin'  to  take  some  interest  in  his  busi- 
ness, and  I  set  down  agin.  It  was  the  peep  'o  day. 
The  light  come  faint  from  the  east,  the  breeze 
blowed  gentle  and  fresh,  some  more  birds  waked  up 
in  the  orchard,  then  some  more  in  the  trees  near  the 
house,  and  all  begun  singin'  together.  People  begun 
to  stir,  and  the  gal  opened  the  shutters.  Just  then 
the  first  beam  of  the  sun  fell  upon  the  blossoms;  a. 
leetle  more  and  it  tetcht  the  roses  on  the  bushes,  and 
the  next  thing  it  was  broad  day;  the  sun  fairly 
blazed;  the  birds  sang  like  they'd  split  their  little 
throats;  all  the  leaves  was  movin',  and  flashin'  dia- 
monds of  dew.  and  the  whole  wide  world  was  bright 
and  happy  as  a  king.  Seemed  to  me  like  there  was 
a  good  breakfast  in  every  house  in  the  land,  and  not 
a  sick  child  or  woman  anywhere.  It  was  a  fine 
mornin'. 

"  And  I  says  to  my  neighbor, '  that's  music,  that  is.' 


394 

"But  he  glar'd  at  me  like  he'd  like  to  cut  my 
throat. 

"  Presently  the  wind  turned ;  it  begun  to  thicken 
up,  and  a  kind  of  grey  mist  come  over  things ;  I  got 
low-spirited  d'rectly.  Then  a  silver  rain  began  to 
fall.  I  could  see  the  drops  touch  the  ground ;  some 
flashed  up  like  long  pearl  ear-rings,  and  the  rest  rolled 
away  like  round  rubies.  It  was  pretty,  but  melan- 
choly. Then  the  pearls  gathered  themselves  into 
long  strands  and  necklaces,  and  then  they  melted  into 
thin  silver  streams  running  between  golden  gravels, 
.and  then  the  streams  joined  each  other  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  and  made  a  brook  that  flowed  silent  except 
that  you  could  kinder  see  the  music,  specially  when 
the  bushes  on  the  banks  moved  as  the  music  went 
along  down  the  valley.  I  could  smell  the  flowers  in 
the  meadow.  But  the  sun  didn't  shine,  nor  the  birds 
sing;  it  was  a  foggy  day,  but  not  cold.  The  most 
curious  thing  was  the  little  white  angel  boy,  like  you 
.see  in  pictures,  that  run  ahead  of  the  music  brook, 
and  led  it  on,  and  on,  away  out  of  the  world,  where 
no  man  ever  was — /  never  was,  certain.  I  could  see 
that  boy  just  as  plain  as  I  see  you.  Then  the  moon- 
light came,  without  any  sunset,  and  shone  on  the 
grave-yards,  where  some  few  ghosts  lifted  their 
hands  and  went  over  the  wall,  and  between  the  black 
sharp-top  trees  splendid  marble  houses  rose  up,  with 
fine  ladies  in  the  lit  up  windows,  and  men  that  loved 
^em,  but  could  never  get  a-nigh  'em,  and  played  on 
guitars  under  the  trees,  and  made  me  that  miserable 
I  could  a-cried,  because  I  wanted  to  love  somebody, 


395 

I  don't  know  who,  better  than  the  men  with  guitars 
-did.  Then  the  sun  went  down,  it  got  dark,  the  wind 
moaned  and  wept  like  a  lost  child  for  its  dead  mother, 
and  I  could  a  got  up  then  and  there  and  preached  a 
better  sermon  than  any  I  ever  listened  to.  There 
wasn't  a  thing  in  the  world  left  to  live  for,  not  a 
blame  thing,  and  yet  I  didn't  want  the  music  to  stop 
one  bit.  It  was  happier  to  be  miserable  than  to  be 
happy  without  being  miserable.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand it.  I  hung  my  head  and  pulled  out  my  hanker- 
chief,  and  blowed  my  nose  loud  to  keep  from  cryin'. 
My  eyes  is  weak  anyway ;  I  didn't  want  anybody  to 
be  a  gazin'  at  me  a  snivlin',  and  its  nobody's  business 
what  I  do  with  my  nose.  It's  mine.  But  some  sev- 
eral glared  at  me,  mad  as  Tucker. 

"Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  old  Ruben  changed  his 
tune.  He  ripped  and  he  rar'd,  he  tipped  and  tar'd, 
he  pranced  and  he  charged  like  the  grand  entry  at  a 
circus.  'Feared  to  me  that  all  the  gas  in  the  house 
was  turned  on  at  once,  things  got  so  bright,  and  I 
hilt  up  my  head,  ready  to  look  any  man  in  the  face, 
and  not  afeard  of  nothin'.  It  was  a  circus,  and  a 
brass  band,  and  a  big  ball,  all  goin'  on  at  the  same 
time.  He  lit  into  them  keys  like  a  thousand  of  brick, 
he  give  'em  no  rest,  day  nor  night ;  he  set  every  livin' 
joint  in  me  a-goiri',  and  not  bein'  able  to  stand  it  no 
longer,  I  jumpt  spang  onto  my  seat,  and  jest  hol- 
lered: 

"'Go  it,  my  Rube!' 

"  Every  blamed  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  house 
riz  on  me,  and  shouted,  '  Put  him  out !  put  him  out!' 


396 

"Put  your  great-grandmother's  grizzly  grey 
greenish  cat  into  the  middle  of  next  month !'  I  says. 
6  Tech  me  if  you  dare  !  I  paid  my  money,  and  you 
jest  come  a-nigh  me.' 

"  With  that,  some  several  p'licemen  run  up,  and  I 
had  to  simmer  down.  But  I  would  a  fit  any  fool  that 
laid  hands  on  me,  for  I  was  bound  to  hear  Ruby  out 
or  die. 

"He  had  changed  his  tune  again.  He  hopt-light 
ladies  and  tip-toed  fine  from  eend  to  eend  of  the  key- 
board. He  played  soft,  and  low,  and  solemn.  I 
heard  the  churcU  bells  over  the  hills.  The  candles 
in  heaven  was  lit,  one  by  one.  I  saw  the  stars  rise.- 
The  great  organ  of  eternity  began  to  play  from  the 
world's  end  to  the  world's  end,  and  all  the  angels 
went  to  prayers.  Then  the  music  changed  to  water, 
full  of  feeling  that  couldn't  be  thought,  and  began  to 
drop — drip,  drop,  drip,  drop — clear  and  sweet,  like 
tears  of  joy  fallin'  into  a  lake  of  glory.  It  was 
sweeter  than  that.  It  was  as  sweet  as  a  sweetheart 
sweetenin'  sweetness  with  white  sugar,  mixt  with- 
powdered  silver  and  seed  diamonds.  It  was  too  sweet.. 
I  tell  you  the  audience  cheered.  Ruben  he  kinder- 
bowed,  like  he  wanted  to  say,  i  Much  obleeged,  but 
I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  interrup'  me.' 

"He  stqpt  a  minute  or  two,  to  fetch  breath- 
Then  he  got  mad.  He  run  his  fingers  through  his 
hair,  he  shoved  up  his  sleeves,  he  opened  his  coat 
tails  a  lee  tie  further,  he  drug  up  his  stool,  he  leaned 
over,  and,  sir,  he  just  went  for  that  old  pianner.  He 
slapt  her  face,  he  boxed  her  jaws,  he  pulled  her  nose, 


39T 

lie  pinched  her  ears  and  he  scratched  her  cheeks,  till 
she  farly  yelled.  He  knockt  her  down  and  he 
stompt  on  her  shameful.  She  bellowed  like  a  bull, 
,she  bleated  like  a  calf,  she  howled  like  a  hound,  she 
squeeled  like  a  pig,  she  shrieked  like  a  rat,  and  then 
he  wouldn't  let  her  up.  He  run  a  quarter-stretch 
down  the  low  grounds  of  the  base,  till  he  got  clean 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  you  heard  thunder 
galloping  after  thunder,  through  the  hollows  and 
-caves  of  perdition ;  and  then  he  fox-chased  his  right 
hand  with  his  left  till  he  got  away  out  of  the  treble 
into  the  clouds,  whar  the  notes  was  finer  than  the  pints 
•of  cambric  needles,  and  you  couldn't  hear  nothin'  but 
.the  shadders  of  'em.  And  then  he  wouldn't  let  the 
old  pianner  go.  He  for'ard-two'd,  he  crost  over  first 
gentleman,  he  crost  over  first  lady,  he  balanced  to 
pards,  he  chassade  right  and  left,  back  to  your 
places,  he  all  hands'd  aroun',  ladies  to  the  right, 
promenade  all,  in  and  out,  here  and  there,  back  and 
forth,  up  and  down,  perpetual  motion,  doubled  and 
twisted  and  tied  and  turned  and  tacked  and  tangled 
into  forty-'leven  thousand  double  bow-knots.  By 
jings !  it  was  a  mixtery.  And  then  he  wouldn't  let 
the  old  pianner  go.  He  fetcht  up  his  right  wing,  he 
fetcht  up  his  left  wing,  he  fetcht  up  his  centre,  he 
fetcht  up  his  reserves.  He  fired  by  file,  he  fired  by 
platoons,  by  company,  by  regiments  and  by  brigades. 
He  opened  his  cannon,  siege  guns  down  thar,  Napo- 
leons here,  twelve-pounders  yonder,  big  guns,  little 
guns,  middle-size  guns,  round  shot,  shell,  shrap- 
nel, grape,  canister,  mortars,  mines  and  magazines, 


398 

every  livin'  battery  and  bomb  a'goin'  at  the  same- 
time.  The  house  trembled,  the  lights  danced,  the 
walls  shuk,  the  floor  come  up,  the  ceilin'  come 
down,  the  sky  split,  the  ground  rockt — heavens  and 
earth,  creation,  sweet  potatoes,  Mosses,  nine-pences,. 
glory,  ten-penny  nails,  my  Mary  Ann,  hallelujah, 
Samson  in  a  'simmon  tree,  Jeroosal'm,  Tump  Tomp- 
son  in  a  tumbler-cart,  roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — 
ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle 
addle — riddle-iddle-iddie-iddle — reetle-eetle-eetle 
eetle-eetle-eetle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang !  per  lang!  per- 
plang!  p-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-lang !  BANG! 

With  that  bang  !  he  lifted  hisself  bodily  into  the 
ar',  and  he  come  down  with  his  knees,  his  ten  fingers,, 
his  ten  toes,  his  elbows  and  his  nose,  striking  every 
single  solitary  key  on  that  pianner  at  the  same  time. 
The  thing  busted  and  went  off  into  seventeen  hundred 
and  fifty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  and  forty-two 
hemi-demi-semi-quivers,  and  I  know'd  no  mo'. 

""When  I  come  too,  I  were  under  ground  about 
twenty  foot,  in  a  place  they  call  Oyster  Bay,  treatin' 
a  Yankee  that  I  never  laid  eyes  on  before,  and  never 
expect  to  ag'in.  Day  was  a  breakin'  by  the  time  I 
got  to  the  St.  Nicholas  hotel,  and  I  pledge  you  my 
word  I  didn't  know  my  name.  The  man  asked  me 
the  number  of  my  room,  and  I  told  him,  <  Hot  music 
on  the  half -shell  for  twoT  I  pintedly  did." 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE. 


TOM,  old  fellow,  I  grieve  to  see 
The  sleeve  hanging  loose  at  your  side 
The  arm  you  lost  was  worth  to  me 

Every  Yankee  that  ever  died. 
But  you  don't  mind  it  at  all ; 

You  swear  you've  a  beautiful  stump, 
And  laugh  at  that  damnable  ball ; 
Tom,  I  knew  you  were  always  a  trump. 

A  good  right  arm,  a  nervy  hand, 

A  wrist  as  strong  as  a  sappling  oak, 
Buried  deep  in  the  Malvern  sand — 

To  laugh  at  that  is  a  sorry  joke. 
Never  again  your  iron  grip 

Shall  I  feel  in  my  shrinking  palm — 
Tom,  Tom,  I  see  your  trembling  lip, 

How  on  earth  can  I  be  calm? 

Well,  the  arm  is  gone,  it  is  true ; 

But  the  one  that  is  nearest  the  heart 
Is  left — and  that's  as  good  as  two  ; 

Tom,  old  fellow,  what  makes  you  start  ? 
Why,  man,  she  thinks  that  empty  sleeve 

A  badge  of  honor  ;  so  do  I, 
And  all  of  us — I  do  believe 

The  fellow  is  going  to  cry  ! 


400  THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE. 

"She  deserves  a  perfect  man,"  you  say; 

"You  not  worth  her  in  your  prime?" 
Tom !  the  arm  that  has  turn'd  to  clay 

Your  whole  body  has  made  sublime  ; 
For  you  have  placed  in  the  Malvern  earth 

The  proof  and  pledge  of  a  noble  life — 
And  the  rest,  henceforward  of  higher  worth, 

Will  be  dearer  than  all  to  your  wife. 

I  see  the  people  in  the  street 

Look  at  your  sleeve  with  kindling  eyes ; 
And  you  know,  Tom,  there's  naught  so  sweet 

As  homage  shown  in  mute  surmise. 
Bravely  your  arm  in  battle  strove  ; 

Freely,  for  Freedom's  sake,  you  gave  it ; 
It  has  perished — but  a  nation's  love 

In  proud  remembrance  will  save  it. 

•Go  to  your  sweetheart,  then,  forthwith — 

You're  a  fool  for  staying  so  long ; 
Woman's  love  you'll  find  no  myth, 

But  a  truth,  living,  tender  and  strong. 
And  when  around  her  slender  belt 

Your  left  is  clasped  in  fond  embrace, 
Your  right  will  thrill  as  if  it  felt, 

In  its  grave,  the  usurper's  place. 

As  I  look  through  the  coming  years, 
I  see  a  one-armed  married  man  ; 

A  little  woman,  with  smiles  and  tears, 
Is  helping  as  hard  as  she  can 

'To  put  on  his  coat,  pin  up  his  sleeve, 
Tie  his  cravat  and  cut  his  food ; 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE.  401 

And  I  say,  as  these  fancies  I  weave, 

"That  is  Tom  and  the  woman  he  wooed." 

The  years  roll  on,  and  then  I  see 

A  wedding  picture  bright  and  fair ; 
I  look  closer,  and  it's  plain  to  me 

That  is  Tom  with  the  silver  hair. 
He  gives  away  the  lovely  bride, 

And  the  guests  linger,  loth  to  leave 
The  house  of  him  in  whom  they  pride — 

"Brave  old  Tom  with  the  empty  sleeve." 


AFTER  APPOMATTOX. 


"ON  his  way  to  Richmond,  General  Lee  stopped  for  the  night 
near  the  residence  of  his  brother,  Mr.  Carter  Lee,  of  Powhatan 
county ;  and,  although  importuned  by  his  •  brother  to  pass  the 
night  under  his  roof,  the  General  persisted  in  pitching  his  tent  by 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  going  into  camp  as  usual. " — Taylor's 
"•Four  Years  with  General  Let,"  page  154. 

UPON  a  hill-top,  bold  and  free, 
Ere  that  sad  day  is  done, 
The  soldier  form  and  face  of  Lee 
Stand  out  against  the  sun. 

The  strong,  grey  head  is  carried  high, 

The  firm  hand  grasps  the  rein ; 
Earth  nowhere  holds  such  majesty, 

And  nowhere  hides  such  pain. 

A  little  onward  now  he  rides, 

For  he  alone  would  be  ; 
But  something  more  than  space  divides 

His  staff  from  Eobert  Lee. 

Scarce  can  he  tell  the  way  he  goes, 

Scarce  feels  the  April  air; 
Heap'd  in  his  breast,  his  country's  woes 

Have  filled  him  with  despair. 


AFTER  APPOMATTOX.  403 

The  purple  mountains  fade  behind, 

Before  him  lies  the  sea ; 
In  all  this  world  a  fate  unkind 

Leaves  home  nor  hope  for  Lee. 

The  rosy  flush  dies  on  the  plain, 

And  dismal  shadows  start ; 
What  tumult  in  his  riven  brain, 

What  torture  in  his  heart ! 

The  bright'ning  stars  are  naught  to  him, 

Nor  aught  the  sweet  moonlight ; 
His  star  has  grown  a-sudden  dim — 

He  nevermore  shall  fight. 

His  work  seems  done,  his  day  seems  spent; 

What  matters  night  or  day  ! 
He  will  betake  him  to  his  tent, 

And,  kneeling  there,  will  pray. 

The  cries  that  upward  went  that  night 

Unto  the  great  White  Throne — 
The  tears  for  guidance  and  for  light — 

To  God  alone  are  known. 

Sacred  throughout  all  coming  time, 

Those  sleepless  hours  shall  be ; 
For  who  can  tell,  in  words  sublime, 

The  agony  of  Lee  ? 


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